


Bank's Got Bullet Holes

by batty4u



Series: Bank's Got Bullet Holes [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Mobsters, Multi, dubcon, mafia!au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-30
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-08 22:00:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batty4u/pseuds/batty4u
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now, there were two different kinds of gangs in New York at the time. There were the wealthy, old hat gangs who’d be around for a generation or two, who had money pouring out their ears like wax and who lived in lavish town homes and mansions, and who had summer homes in Long Island and who threw lavish parties with dancers and full bands for no apparent reason. They had Breezers and four or five Moll’s a piece. They dressed in the finest suits, with a different fedora and jacket for each day of the week.</p>
<p>They were the ones who dragged you into a dark alley and slit your throat before dumping you in the Hudson. They were the ones who pulled you into their fancy car and dropped your corpse on your sweetheart’s doorstep, or maybe just bits of you, one at a time. They were the ones who poisoned your drink at a soiree and made you collapsing look like a medical condition, who sent their personal doctors to fool the coppers. They were the cunning, conniving, evil of the city.</p>
<p>Anthony Stark was one of those men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Burrows

**Author's Note:**

> Mafia!AU as seen on my Tumblr :D  
> If you have any questions about the slang or history used, feel free to shoot me a message.

In Brooklyn, when two rather large, well dressed men, came calling to your door, pulling up in a sedan that cost more money than the whole damn city block, it was best to have a gun on hand. And thanks to Bucky and his paranoia, Steve always had a gun or two on hand. It didn’t help that three of his boys had been gunned down earlier that week, the papers for the funeral arrangements laid out on his kitchen table. They couldn’t afford an expensive display, not like those Italian bastards did, with their miniature parades and lavish viewings. No it would just be a small service for the families at this rate, at the Church down the street, maybe some flowers if they could swing it from the florist on Seventh. They probably could, one of the benefits of his business was getting in good with the local shopkeepers, helping them raise business, keeping them safe, paying for needed repairs to keep the neighborhood running smooth, the usual packaged deal.

Steve sighed at the knock on his door. It was heavy, solid, and not meant to be ignored. It wasn’t his boys, they didn’t have a car that nice, and they’d just barge right in with their moonshine and their booming voices and their muddy boots on his floor. He fought down the sickness in his gut at the second knock, praying the way he did every day that it wasn’t someone delivering The News. He hated it when Bucky was gone for more than a day on business, hated not knowing where he was, if he was ok, whether he was going to make it back home. But someone had to take care of the mess down in Jersey and Bucky was his best man, no one better for the job.

Third knock and Steve finally got to his feet, tucking his pistol under his belt and answered the door. The two men were dressed in fine suits, their shoes freshly shined, fedoras atop their heads and a handgun tucked into each of their jackets.

 

“Can I help you gentlemen?” Steve asked, leaning up against the door frame, fully aware that he was unimpressive in his trousers, suspenders, and undershirt. He hadn’t planned on guests or else he would have been properly dressed.

 

“You Cap’n Rogers?” The first man asked, beady black eyes taking in his unshaven and rough appearance.

“Depends.”

“We’re here on behalf of Mr. Stark. He was hoping you’d join him for dinner,” The second man explained, the displeasure at his own words evident in his voice. “He has a business proposition for you.”

 

He laughed, because frankly that was the only reaction he saw fitting. “Wait, so, the big bad boss of you Italian boys, wants to see me with a business proposition?” The men just frowned. “Well that’s just hilarious. You two should get a stand up gig together, we could use one down at Patrick’s speakeasy by the bridge.”

 

“Mr. Stark insists.”

 

“I’m sure he does.”

 

“Mr. Stark has noticed the sudden drop in your numbers, Cap’n.” The second man said, shifting. “He believes it’s caused by the same person screwing with his guns and booze.”

 

He had been losing men lately. Sure there was always the occasional loss, sometimes a guy got a bit too confident and pulled a stunt in front of a copper, others pissed off the wrong person, usually the Italians. Thats who he’d expected to be behind it all, behind the shootings the unprovoked hits and the raiding of two of his whiskey hide outs.

 

“You mean it’s not you?” Steve asked, trying not to appear interested. He didn’t like Stark, he didn’t like the italians, they didn’t like him, and he was planning to keep it that way as long as possible. He didn’t need Stark’s dogs moving into his town. He already had Manhattan and Long Island and parts of Chicago, he didn’t need Brooklyn.

The first man gave a grunt of indignation. “Well most of them weren’t. Mr. Stark wants to see you, thinks you both can help each other out. This is the…”

“Polite invitation.” The second man offered. “We don’t want to cause a scene, dragging the all powerful Cap’n Rogers from his apartment, we’ve had enough trouble with the Mob as of late. You Irish thugs pack a punch, I’ll give you that. Now, get a goddamn wiggle and let’s go.”

“Give a man a minute to shave, I’ll meet you out on the street.”

“It’d be best if you left the pistol.”

“I’ll take that into consideration.” Steve closed the door and moved to the washroom, shaving and giving his blonde hair a quick brush. He didn’t have a suit fancy enough for Stark’s taste, he was sure of that. Not that he’d ever met the man, but his reputation stretched down the east coast and into parts of Europe. He wasn’t keen on the whole idea of being in his house, surrounded by his dogs, without at least one person to back him up, but hey, what was the worst that could happen.

Maybe he could figure out who was ballsy enough to mess with his business. And maybe he’d get some funds out of Stark. Or maybe just a chance to shoot him. They each sounded like plausible, pleasant options.

 

Or so he thought.

*

Now, there were two different kinds of gangs in New York at the time. There were the wealthy, old hat gangs who’d be around for a generation or two, who had money pouring out their ears like wax and who lived in lavish town homes and mansions, and who had summer homes in Long Island and who threw lavish parties with dancers and full bands for no apparent reason. They had Breezers and four or five Moll’s a piece. They dressed in the finest suits, with a different fedora and jacket for each day of the week.

They were the ones who dragged you into a dark alley and slit your throat before dumping you in the Hudson. They were the ones who pulled you into their fancy car and dropped your corpse on your sweetheart’s doorstep, or maybe just bits of you, one at a time. They were the ones who poisoned your drink at a soiree and made you collapsing look like a medical condition, who sent their personal doctors to fool the coppers. They were the cunning, conniving, evil of the city.

Anthony Stark was one of those men.

The second kind of gang was made up of the younger generation who hadn’t had time to build up their own personal treasure hordes, who had yet to buy out most of the city, men who had come home from the war with nothing, no one to take them in, without a cent in their name. They lived in tiny apartments, or the basements of their speakeasy’s or in cramped rooms with three other men and their wives. Almost none of them had cars, and if they had suits they were frayed and old and hand me downs and pawn shopped from the rich Fat Cats uptown, or they were stolen straight from the store. They brewed their own whiskey in their bathrooms and back alleys, they acted like a pack protecting their own, patrolling the streets of their neighborhoods with tire irons and bats and sledgehammers.

They were the ones who, if they wanted you bumped off, cornered you in front of a crowd and proceeded to beat you to death. They were the ones who would be waiting for you when you got home from work at the factory, ready to blow your brains out and not bother to make it look like a suicide. They were the ones who would beat you senseless if they caught you robbing someone and then drop your half dead hide at the Coppers’ office, not bothering to help patch up your wounds. They were the ones who patrolled the speakeasies and fought the coppers when they came calling, with nothing but their bare fists because if they lost that business they had little left. They bribed the coppers with as much as they could and made deals, because someone always had a brother on the force, or a grandmother who needed to be cared for, or a daughter looking for a husband.

Steve Rogers was that kind of man.

There had always been a tension between the gangs in New York, since they’d all moved into town and started setting up shop, the Butcher and his homegrown boys taking on the first wave of Irish and Germans and Chinese, most of whom moved west not long after arriving. Then the Italians had shown up and started digging their teeth into the city and hell had come to earth, everyone picking sides, buying out their peers and neighbors, bribing the politicians and cops and god help you if you weren’t first in line to do so. The initial bloodshed had been, for lack of a better word, disgusting and completely undignified. But after a few years, maybe a decade or two, the Italians settled into their cozy throne in Manhattan, the Germans and a large portion of the Irish focusing on Philly and Boston and other cities that needed manual labor. The Russians snuck in at some point, no one was really sure when, and everyone tried to fit into the odd arrangement of murder, bank robberies, and grudges that lasted lifetimes.

Steve had never met Tony Stark, but he was pretty sure he knew what to expect when the car pulled to a stop outside the mansion. It was on the outskirts of the city, with lush grounds, an ornate iron fence, and several armed men standing out front. He was also pretty sure he wasn’t going to like him. At all.

The foyer was large and, as expected, lavishly decorated with thick red drapes, an oriental rug Stark had probably gotten from the actual Orient, and polished wood floors. Steve felt small standing there, waiting to be shown in and he wasn’t a small man. The two men who had escorted him slipped out of sight, muttering to each other and sneaking wary looks back at Steve. But he knew how to be polite. He was after all a gentleman, he’d been raised that way, and a gentleman never barged into a man’s home unannounced, even if the other man’s home was a haven for a rival gang.

“Captain Rogers, I presume?” A soft voice asked from the stairs.

 

Steve pulled off his hat and bowed his head. “Yes sir, that’d be me.”

The butler pulled a tight smile and descended the stairs. He looked to be in his fifties, still fit which was surprising, tense and british and dressed in a crisp, pressed black suit, white gloved hands reaching for Steve’s coat and hat. “My name is Edwin Jarvis, sir, Master Anthony’s butler. Drinks are being served in the study, diner will be ready within the hour and Master Anthony will join you shortly.” He turned to lead Steve down one of the grand corridors. “If you would be so kind sir.”

 

“Not going to take my gun?” Steve asked as he followed.

 

“No, sir. You’ll find it’s not the butler’s business to be dealing with firearms unless the master says so. And, if I may be frank, the master handles firearms a bit too well for my taste.”

So Steve kept his pistol tucked under his belt and followed Jarvis. The whole house seemed to be decorated in the same pompous and ostentatious fashion, the old Turn of the Century, Belle Epoque designs still clinging to the walls and the carpets and the sculptures that lurked in the corners and the large portraits that stared down at them in condescension. Gave him the heebie-Jeebies in all honesty. His place would never have those kind of Portraits. Some photos sure, but nothing as unnatural as those paintings.

“Master Anthony will be in shortly, sir,” Jarvis said, motioning for Steve to enter the Study.

 

“Thank you, sir,” Steve said with a nod before turning his attention to the study. Three of the walls were lined with bookshelves, all covered in large dusty volumes. He reached for the nearest shelf and grabbed for a book, a part of him hoping that it was just a box made to look like books. One of the other Italians he had met had filled his library with boxes made to look like books, hoping to impress his guests. But Stark had the real thing, large old volumes of text, with thick parchment pages and faded ink.

 

“You’ll find they’re all like that, surprisingly.”

 

The gun was in his hand before Steve realized he was reaching for it, but that was the norm when life was a constant series of shootings and attempted murders. The laughter that followed eased his nerves only slightly.

 

“Easy there, Grundy, easy. No need to start a Caper.” The man stepped out of the doorway and held up his hands in surrender, eyes running over Steve’s stony face, second hand suit and the gun held steady in his hand.

 

“Mr. Stark?”

“Guilty.” He smiled, blue eyes dark and gleaming with mischief. “Well aren’t you a handsome sonnovabitch.”

 

Steve sighed and lowered the gun, tucking it back under his belt. “You shouldn’t sneak up on a fella like that. You’ll get a bullet in your kisser.”

 

Tony chuckled. “There are worse things. Drink? I’m having one, you should too, a man should always have a drink.” Steve nodded and Tony set about mixing the cocktails. He wasn’t dressed as flamboyantly as Steve has expected, his white shirt sharp against the gray vest, sleeves rolled up over his elbows, suspenders peeking out from under the vest, trousers well fitted and simple, shoes scuffed. And he was, Steve hadn’t to admit it, a looker, with dark hair, tanned skin and a dashing smile. Made him more dislikable. He was much less intimidating and much less impressive but Steve wasn’t about to just let his guard down. Idiots who did that ended up in the hudson or the meat packing plants.

 

“Staring isn’t polite, Captain. You are a Captain? That’s ducky, never met an honest to god captain before. At least not one I didn’t shoot I don’t think,” Tony said, handing the drink to Steve who took it with a muttered thanks. “You seem so young though. How old were you in the war?”

 

“Sixteen.”

Tony blinked. “You and your precious best man, what was his names, Barnes? Barnes, joined the ranks at sixteen?” He laughed. “My kind of men.”

 

“What can I do for you, Mr. Stark? I highly doubt you had me dragged out here for sheer amusement.” Steve, leaning up against the nearest bookcase and leveling Tony with a steady glare. “And if it’s nothing important, I need to be off, I’ve got a couple funerals to plan.”

 

Another chuckle. “At ease, Captain. They didn’t drag you did they? I told them not to, I told them to be nice.” his smile was irritatingly infectious. “I’ll smack them around for you then, since they were mean when they weren’t supposed to be.” He took a drink and his air of amusement sobered. “You said funerals?”

 

“Yes, you killed three of my boys last week,” Steve said, grip tightening on his glass.

 

Tony’s eyebrow arched high on his forehead. “I killed them? No, sir, I remember who I kill and it’s been three weeks, two days, seven hours, and twenty six minutes since I last bumped someone.” He downed the rest of his drink and went to make another. “That’s actually… want another?” Steve shook his head. “That’s actually what I wanted to see you about.”

 

Tony dropped into a chair and sighed, crossing his legs and propping his chin on one hand, watching Steve closely. “You’ve been losing a lot of boys lately haven’t you?”

 

He had been, more than usual. “Yeah. What it’s not your doing?”

“No, sir, if I wanted to take you out, I would have started with you and Barnes and then let the rest fall to shits.” Tony took a drink and shrugged. “But I don’t need Brooklyn and there’s no way in hell I’m giving it to the Germans or the Russians so I figure you were the best bet. I don’t benefit from killing your boys.”

 

Steve held up a hand. “Wait, you’re saying you gave me Brooklyn? Do you have any idea how much shit I went through to get my turf?”

 

“And how,” Tony said. “I didn’t give it to you, I’m helping you keep it, that’s what I’m saying. Don’t argue with me, just think about it and everything will start making sense, fall into place, all that jazz.”

 

He did think about it. The number of hits from the Italians were never more than personal grudges or something provoked, unlike the most recent murders. His boys had been at home, minding their own business, or out on a harmless job that didn’t involve killing anyone.

 

“You’ve lost two warehouses too, haven’t you?” Tony asked, smirking at him over the rim of his glass. “Pity, you boys make some damn good bootleg.”

“How in the hell-”

“I own most of the city, Captain. I hear and see and smell every damn thing that comes to pass. And when a competitor and possible ally loses business due to an unprovoked raid from an anonymous threat, I start to get concerned.” He shrugged again, like admitting he monetarily owned the majority of the city was nothing more than a day’s work. 

 

“So if you didn’t kill those men and you didn’t raid my warehouses, who did?” Steve asked, setting his half empty glass down and crossing his arms over his chest. He didn’t like where this was going. Stark knew too much and it made him uneasy. And the goddamned cheshire smile was not making it any better.

 

“Gentlemen,” Jarvis appeared at the door. “Dinner is served in the dining room.”

 

Tony got swiftly to his feet. “Wonderful! Fetch the good doctor would you, Jarvis dear? I don’t think he’s eaten today and you know how he gets when he doesn’t eat.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Shall we, Captain?” Tony motioned towards the door, hooking his arm through Steve’s and pulling him forward. And Steve, despite himself, chuckled.

The dinning room was large and impressive, the ornate table stretching down the middle of the room, the large french windows looking out onto the man made pond behind the house, surrounded by the garden. It was a beautiful view, one Steve wouldn’t have minded seeing each morning in the sunrise. A Maid brought a out dinner of steak, salad and pasta and set it before them, offering them rich red wine in decorative glasses with gold trim. Steve hadn’t eaten that well in months and Tony, damn him, took notice.

“What is it you spend all your earnings on, Captain? You boys make a decent amount with your Gin Mills and and Bootlegging business.” he asked, reclining in his chair, wine glass at his lips.

 

“We keep only what we need to live comfortably,” steve said, focusing on his plate. Most mob bosses did live in better conditions than he did, most were at the inbetween of Tony’s ridiculous wealth and Steve’s simple self invoked poverty.

 

“And the rest?”

 

“Goes to the city, fixing shops, helping to pay for medicine, buying gifts for the children,” He said with a shrug. “I didn’t get into this business to get rich, Stark.”

 

This smile was different. It wasn’t triumphant or proud, it was a somber, bemused smile of someone who was impressed. “You’re a good man, Captain. A Good man in an Evil man’s gig.”

 

“I’m not a good man, Stark.”

 

Tony just chuckled. “We’ll agree to disagree, then.” He wiped his mouth. “Now, about your warehouses and unfortunately dead men.”

 

“If it’s not you then who? The russians have no qualms with us and the Germans are more or less our allies.” Steve took a bite of steak. “I thought it was you being, pardon the assumption, a prick and flaunting your power. You claim it wasn’t.”

 

“It wasn’t Tony,” A timid voice offered from behind him.

 

Steve turned to see a small man standing by the windows, hands clasped nervously in front of him, shoulders near his ears, dark curly hair messy atop his head, clothes disheveled and a bit too big for him. He looked completely out of place in Stark’s grand dinning room.

 

“Brucey, Baby!” Tony cooed from the end of the table. “Wonderful, come eat.”

 

The man, Bruce, nodded and shuffled over to the seat next to Tony, the maid appearing with his dinner. He looked up and offered Steve his hand and a weak smile. “Bruce Banner.”

 

“Steve Rogers.”

 

He nodded. “I patched up a couple of your… Men last week. Mulcahy and O’Leary, I think?”

 

Mulcahy and O’Leary had been cornered by Coppers last week, trying to move a shipment of Bootleg from Brooklyn to the Bronx. They’d managed to escape with the delivery but they’d been badly injured in the process.

 

“That’s very kind of you, sir. I believe I now owe you a debt,” Steve said with a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

 

“J-just doing my job. Not many Doctors will grab mobsters off the street, someone has to.” Bruce picked at his food.

 

“Bruce is one of a kind, the best damn Doctor and Chemist I’ve ever seen. He can work miracles.” Tony said, leaning over to poke Bruce in the side. “Eat.”

 

“Hypocrite.” Bruce muttered before shoving a piece of steak into his mouth.

 

“Brat.”

 

Steve sighed. “So if it isn’t you, who is it?”

 

Tony sat back in his seat. “Probably the same bastard who stole a shipment of my guns two weeks ago and set fire to one of my bars three nights ago. He’s been messing with the Russians too, but no one seems to know who he is.”

 

“So how does that help me?”

 

“Well, we seem to have a common problem. We both have a painful thorn in our side,” Tony said, setting down his glass. “And I fear that if it is not extracted soon, it will fester and become horribly infected.”

 

“Tony, I’m eating,” Bruce grumbled.

 

“I’m listening,” Steve said.

 

Tony smiled, devilish and bright. “It’s simple, Captain. You’ve got the numbers, the muscle, I’ve got the best damn Hitman in the country, a chemist who can recreate any drug in existence,” He motioned to Bruce who flushed and looked away. “The Russian boss calling each Thursday for drinks and a European Giant fighting for me in the Ring. And not to mention I own almost all of the city.”

 

Steve choked on his wine. “You want me to join you?”

 

“No, this isn’t a join me and give up your power, hardly, I don’t want your power, how many goddamn times do I need to say this.” Tony sighed. “You and I, we become partners. We become partners, pool our resources, find the scumbag who’s fucking with us, and kill him.”

 

“And then?”

 

“We have New York City kneeling at our feet.”

 

He finished with a dramatic wave of his hands, leaving the idea out in the open for Steve to consider, Bruce nervously glancing from one to the other. Tony was smug, he seemed sure Steve would take the deal and, damn it all, Steve wasn’t sure he’d say no.

He couldn’t afford to lose more men, not when they left widows and orphans behind, he could let that happen. And if they lost another warehouse they’d be behind two months in production and shipment.

 

“I… I don’t know, Stark.”

 

Tony laughed. “It’s not an immediate decision. Captain. And please, Tony will suffice. Mr. Stark was my father and he’s an unhappy corpse. Think it over before you decide, talk it out with that precious sniper of yours, who I would like to meet one day, and then get back to me. You don’t have to sign in blood or nothing. Savy?”

 

With a sigh, Steve nodded. “I suppose.”

 

“Good,” Tony nodded with a clap of his hands. “Thank you for meeting me, but now I’m afraid I have to see a man about a dog.” He got to his feet and waved to the maid to clear his place, Jarvis appearing with his coat and hat. “Of course, unless you’d like to join me, Captain? Bruce never does, doesn’t suit his weak constitution.”

 

Steve got to his feet, shaking Bruce’s hand one last time. “I don’t know, St- Tony. I should be heading back to Brooklyn. As I said I have funerals to plan.”

 

Tony rolled his eyes like a child. “You can plan funerals anytime, come, have some drinks, we’ll make a little Whoopee, paint the town red, having a grand ol’ fucking time. Might help you think about my proposal.” He laughed. “Suit yourself, I’ll be out in the car should you change your mind. Ciao.” And he was off with a quick strut for the door, humming to himself as he slid into his fine sportcoat.

 

“You should go,” Bruce said in a weak voice.

 

“Why?”

 

“He never invites anyone drinking, except for me and, well, Clint, his hitman, invites himself. But he’s never invited a business partner along before.” Bruce glanced up at Steve. “He likes you. And that can always be helpful in the long run.”

 

It could be helpful, especially if he did agree to the deal in the end, which, even as he stood there, was becoming more and more likely. Swearing, Steve nodded goodbye to Bruce and hurried outside.

 

“Stark!”

 

Tony was climbing into his car. “Changed your mind then, Sheik? Attaboy!”

 

Steve rolled his eyes and took his coat from Jarvis. “Your booze better be worth it.”

 

Tony laughed and pulled Steve into the car. “Oh Darling, and how.”


	2. Speakeasy Sins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Owl’s Eye was tucked away behind a flower shop in upper Manhattan. the basement entrance was almost invisible from the street, the alley easily hiding it from passerby who weren’t clearly looking for it. It was one of Tony’s personal favorites when it came to the speakeasies he ran. Some were always going to be more fancy and more attractive than others, like Jubilee by the Park. But the Owl’s Eye was the perfect mix of sketchy back alley characters and classy decor, an upbeat swing striking up as they walked in, Steve following quietly behind Tony, who began waving to various men and women, all glitzy and dazzling in their high fashions and white smiles.

The Owl’s Eye was tucked away behind a flower shop in upper Manhattan. the basement entrance was almost invisible from the street, the alley easily hiding it from passerby who weren’t clearly looking for it. It was one of Tony’s personal favorites when it came to the speakeasies he ran. Some were always going to be more fancy and more attractive than others, like Jubilee by the Park. But the Owl’s Eye was the perfect mix of sketchy back alley characters and classy decor, an upbeat swing striking up as they walked in, Steve following quietly behind Tony, who began waving to various men and women, all glitzy and dazzling in their high fashions and white smiles.

 

“Keep up, Captain, I don’t want to lose you to some wannabe moll in here, Capisce?” Tony called over the music, leading him to the Bar. Behind it a large Owl sat perched, with enormous amber glass eyes.

 

“Hell’s that for?” he asked and the Bartender prepared drinks for them.

 

“Lets ‘em know the coppers are coming,” He explained, handing steve a glass of booze.

 

“Clever ain’t it?” Tony asked. “I made it. The eyes, they blink when the Coppers are in the alley. Someone sits out there and keeps watch. Then they hit a switch and the eyes the start blinking. Scary shit let me tell you.”

“Huh. Fancy.”

 

“Fancy? That’s all you got to say Captain? That there is a fine piece of a modern marvel.”

 

Steve chuckled. “Stark, if the coppers find my booze, we don’t bother with fancy toys and warnings.”

 

Tony leaned against the bar. “And what is it you do then?”

“Beat them shitless?”

 

His laughter was infectious and irritably so. Steve had told himself in the car he was only staying for one drink, not getting too friendly, not joining in the dance or the fray or the whoopee, besides there was a chance Bucky might be returning and he needed to be back in Brooklyn to call a meeting. But that laughter was dangerous. It would have him there all night. Or worse.

 

“That… That is why I like you, Captain. Straight forward, no bullshit, get things done kind of man.” Tony chuckled into his drink. “My kind of man.” his eyes followed the slim girls and boys on the dance floor, twisting and swinging about in a whirlwind of glitter and shine.

 

“You got a dame?” Steve asked.

 

Tony’s eyes darkened and he shook his head. “Not a one Jane kind of guy.” he set down his glass and reached for Steve’s hand. “Come on big bad boss man, dance with me.”

 

“No.”

 

Tony arched an eyebrow and his smile grew devilish, just as it had when he’d first stepped into the room that evening. “No? Oh Captain, pretend it’s an order. One dance and then you can find a classy dame to take home.” And with surprising force he yanked Steve out onto the floor and into the sea of dancing, smiling, laughing, drinking bodies.

 

One dance became two, then three, then five, until a mousy redhead grabbed hold of Steve’s arm, shoved a drink into his hand and proceeded to lead him through a round of the charleston and Tony was swept off to the bar by a pair of blondes.

 

He didn’t give out his name. He didn’t need the word of the Irish Mob Boss of Brooklyn, The Captain, spending a night out with the Mafiosos, who technically, they weren’t supposed to even associate with unless it involved bullets and money. But then they were probably going to be partners and hell Bucky was going to give him such an earful about it when he got back from Jersey.

 

Around dance number ten and drink number who gives a damn, Steve thanked the red head and moved back to the Bar, looking around for Tony. He was going to need a ride back to Brooklyn at this rate. The bartender nodded towards the back, by the restrooms, where Tony was hunched over talking with another man in a suit, probably one of his goons.

 

“Might be business,” the bartender said, handing steve another drink. “Might take a bit.”

 

“Grand.” Steve muttered, settling back in his seat, watching Tony out of the corner of his eye.

*

Tony could feel his skin crawling. He hated that feeling, he hated it more than the tightness in his chest that never seemed to go away, more than the cold sweat on his neck or the ache in his fingers from too much tinkering. It mixed with the uneasy stupor of liqueur in his system, his stomach tightening as the shivers ran down his spine and across his arms.

 

“Howard was a good man.” Jeeves, or Jenkins, or Jared, whatever the hell his name was they were all the same anyway, said in a harsh whisper. “He promised me a place with you, boy.”

“You knew him?” Tony asked, pulling out a cigarette to keep his hands occupied.

 

“Yessir. I was at his wedding.”

 

“Half of New York and a quarter of Sicily was at his wedding, what of it?”

J-man frowned. “I was there.”

 

“So was I, in my knocked up mother.” Tony took a long drag on the cigarette and sighed. “You’re not making much of an impression here.”

 

“Your father wasn’t this crass, boy. He had respect for the men he worked with.”

 

“Yeah and that worked out so damn well for him. Where is he know? That’s right six feet under. So if you ain’t got anything snazzy for me, I need to be moving along.” Tony moved to leave, the man grabbing for his arm and pulling him back. Tony, reacting, twisted, grabbing the front of the man’s faded, cheap suit and shoving him against the wall, dropping his cigarette in the process.

“Touch me once more and you will lose your digits,” he hissed.

 

“Didn’t mean no disrespect, s-sir,” The man stuttered, Tony’s fist pressing into his throat.

 

“Sure you didn’t,” Tony spat, releasing him. “Waste of a damn good cigarette too.”

 

“I’m asking for a chance sir. I can do good work for you,” the man insisted.

 

Tony sighed. “You worked for my old man?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And then you left?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Sorry, I’m not big on second chances for those who pussy out,” Tony said, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it. “Away with you.” He turned away, glancing up to see Steve still waiting for him at the Bar, eyes scanning the room in boredom. It was time to move on if he was going to keep the man interested.

 

“Howard must be rolling in his grave at the mess you’ve made of his legacy.”

 

He froze, ash falling from his cigarette. “S’cuse me?”

 

“Y-you heard.”

 

Tony nodded and turned back around, crowding the man back up against the wall as he rolled up his sleeves. “That so?” There was a mumbled yes. “You got a wife?” another mumbled yes, more panicked. “Well then we’ll make sure you get home to her. Can’t leave the missus waiting, now can we?”

 

The man nodded and made to move, ready to flee like a rabbit, but Tony was faster, he was always faster. One hand held the man to the wall, fingers gripping his arm as if he were pulling him close to share a secret. The other hand slipped a knife from his belt and drove it deep into the man’s abdomen, deep enough so that the hilt pressed against the fabric of the shirt. Tony pulled him close, so that anyone who happened to glance over would think they were whispering, sharing some sort of business.

“I’m much worse than my father,” he hissed as the man choked out broken words, fingers scrabbling for a hold on Tony’s chest. “Much.” Tony twisted the knife. “Worse.” with a forceful shove he drove the knife to the right, roughly cutting through the man’s stomach, blood quickly soaking through his shirt, coating Tony’s hand.

 

He dropped the man into a nearby chair, slumped over a table like a passed out drunk, knife still embedded in his body. Tony grabbed for a cloth napkin and wiped off his hands, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed.

Steve was the only one watching him. his eyes had darkened, his lips pulled into a tight line, brow furrowed. Tony couldn’t tell if it was disapproval or irritation, but as the inner rage began to settle and he moved back towards him, he didn’t much care.

 

“You ready to move on, Soldier?” he asked when he reached Steve, tossing the napkin behind the bar. “We should go, the night is young. C’mon grab your coat.” the bartender draped them over the bar as Tony rolled down his sleeves, drops of blood splattered across his crisp shirt, his fingers still a bit stained.

“Was that really necessary?” steve asked, nodding towards the man.

 

Tony blinked. “Was what necessary?” Then he smiled as if nothing had passed and he’d just been dancing with a pretty blonde. His smile faltered as a young woman began to poke at the man’s body, telling him to get up. “We should go.” Tony nodded to the door and Steve, for reasons he didn’t even really understand, followed. As they stepped out into the alley, the girl screamed.

 

“Now, where to next?” Tony asked, breathing in the night air.

 

“That could have been avoided,” steve said.

“What could have?”

“You know damn well what I mean Stark-”

 

Tony turned on him, pistol in hand, the barrel aimed for Steve’s heart. “Call me Stark one more time and I swear to god, Captain, I will fill you with enough lead to sink you to the bottom of the Hudson.” his hands were shaking, eyes wide with a primal fear in them as he struggled for a steady breath.

Steve raised his hands in peace. “It’s your name, I’m just being polite.”

 

“I told you to call me Tony.”

 

“And I don’t usually get intimate with people I’m supposed to gun down on sight.”

Tony chuckled, a mad little sound that bubbled up from his throat. “Gun me down? Is that, in fact, what you mean to do Captain, because by all means, go right on ahead. I could use a break.” His broke on the last sentence, his lips twitching in a weak smile.

 

“You’re insane.”

 

“Indubitably.”

 

Steve sighed and dropped his hands, reaching out to cover Tony’s hand with his, slowly moving the gun away from his chest. “Fine, Tony. You want to tell me why you shanked a guy in your own bar?”

Tony took a long, shaky breath and tucked the gun away into his trousers. “I… I’ve got daddy issues, really, that’s about it and he was a slimy little bastard, did the city a favor, now I’m thirsty let’s grabbed a drink.” He beamed and the conversation was over.

 

“I need to get back to Brooklyn,” Steve said. “I’d appreciate a ride to the Bridge.”

The smile, to Steve’s surprise, faltered. “You can’t go yet, we haven’t even gotten started. Have you never had a night on the town? We are going to paint this place red.”

 

“You are red enough.” Steve pulled out his handkerchief and tried to wipe a bit of the drying blood off of Tony’s cheek. Tony giggled and leaned into it.

 

“Come on, one more stop? I promise we’ll save the bank robbery I’d had planned for the next outing.”

“I hope to god you’re kidding.”

“Crazy men don’t kid, Captain.” He shrugged. “Come on, just one more round of drinks and I’ll drop you at the bridge.”

 

Hating himself, cursing his existence and his inability to listen to sense and damning the warm feeling in his gut that Steve couldn’t explain, he agreed with a roll of his eyes and let Tony pull him down the street, leaving the car behind. Their arms were hooked as they walked, Tony humming a dance tune as their footsteps kept the beat on the sidewalk.

 

Steve knew it wasn’t going to be just one round of drinks. They moved form one speakeasy to another, drinking, singing, laughing. Tony was probably the happiest drunk Steve had ever dealt with, though the amount of gin and brandy and beer he was drinking was helping his mood considerably.

Captain became Steve, the hooked arms became a hand on the small of his back or fingers digging into his bicep, loud conversations became hushed, whispered secrets, and the devilish smile became swollen lips pressed against Steve’s cheek in the dark alley. The laughter became begging, whimpers, desires hanging on the dusty night air.

 

Too many drinks, too much dancing, the world was spinning around them as they tumbled into the car, bodies entwined in an endless pile of limbs, giggles and laughter filling the cab, the laughter following them all the way back to Tony’s mansion. Fingers slid across the thin fabric of their shirts, the rough wool of their trousers, gripping hair and pulling the other close. Teeth met skin, leaving trails of red welts behind, drawing whines and whimpers from the scabbed and swollen lips.

Words failed them both in the darkness, whatever would make this seem wrong lost on them both. The drunken haze allowed for a lazy ending to a wild night, the red Tony had promised him flashing behind Steve’s eyelids as he collapsed over Tony’s shivering body, hands braced against the plush bed. He fell into the warm, contented haze as Tony’s body pulled him closer, arms wrapping around his broad form, exhausted, drunken whispers declaring nonsense to him in the dark.

 

They were going to regret this. But that was a matter for the morning.


	3. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The door was unlocked, which worried him only for the seconds between opening the door and seeing the figure draped over his faded sofa, boots laying by the boor, bag of clothes perched half open on the coffee table, and Bucky’s favorite shotgun resting on the kitchen table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooooooney, I'm hooooooooome~

And morning came with bright sunlight and the hangover from hell.

Steve found himself staring at a ceiling he didn’t recognize, in a bed that definitely wasn’t his, because he didn’t have room in his apartment for something so big, let alone the money for it. And to add to his misery, there was a tuft of wild black hair resting on the pillow next to him, Tony still curled under the copious blankets, muttering in his sleep.

He should have never agreed to go for drinks.

Steve scrambled about the room as quietly as possible, trying to find his clothes, his face flushing at the mere thought of- oh god they had gone that far hadn’t they, aw hell he was a dead man if he didn’t move quickly.

He dressed, didn’t bother with a note or a moment to wash his face since he wasn’t even sure he could find the goddamn wash room, and hurried out of the bedroom. Maybe he could get the butler to give him a ride to the city, then take a cab back to his place. In his panic, Steve nearly tumbled face first down the stairs, just barely managing to catch himself on the banister, his head throbbing.

“Now see, that’s why I never go out with Tony. Ever” A voice mused from the parlor.

Steve sighed and glanced around the corner into the room. Bruce was seated by the window, dress in loose trousers and a plain shirt, book nestled in his lap. He smiled up at Steve. 

“I trust you enjoyed yourself?” He asked lightly, a hint of amusement playing on his soft voice.

“You saw nothing. I wasn’t here, alright? if anyone asks-”

“You left last night after dinner.” bruce looked back to his book. “Relax, Captain. I’m not one to judge. You sleep with who you sleep with. And with the normal amount Tony drinks each night, it’s hard not to end up rolling out of his bed in the morning. I should know.”

Steve blinked. “what you and- really?”

A smile snuck across bruce’s face, a fond one. “Once. And never again. At least so far. The morning after left much to be desired. Besides, I shouldn’t drink, it doesn’t suit me.” He stretched and stood, facing steve with a smile. “Don’t you worry, What happens in Stark Mansion, stays in Stark mansion. Unless Tony’s killed someone. He didn’t kill anyone did he? I don’t want to have to play medical examiner again. Such a bore.”

To Steve, the good Doctor was almost odder than Tony. He held a peaceful air about him, a dazed and absent look on his face, his dark eyes soft and unfocused. He looked to me in a dream as he moved about the room, fixing himself coffee before settling back in his seat, Steve’s presence completely forgotten. So Steve moved into the foyer, hoping the Butler might magically appear and he could just vanish before Tony awoke and things became honestly and truly difficult.

Instead a car and driver were waiting for him outside. Without a word the driver opened the door for him and moved to the driver’s seat, not commenting on the disheveled state of his clothes and the flush in his cheeks. The uneasy silence lasted until the cab pulled to a slow stop outside of Steve’s building, rather than at the Bridge or on the corner like he’d asked. Maybe Tony’s Butler had taken it upon himself to make sure he got home. Like he couldn’t get home by his lonesome. He ran Brooklyn, he didn’t need some old Brit keeping an eye on him and he didn’t need an Italian Brat who’d been fed by a silver spoon pulling his strings. His feathers were ruffled, he was angry, embarrassed and just plain damn confused. 

“Good morning, Steven,” Little Miss Meredith, the young woman who lived on the ground floor of the building with her mother and daughter, cooed from her door, balancing a load of freshly washed clothes in a basket on her head. “Are you feeling alright?”

Steve smiled and leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Just fine, Meredith. Went for an early walk and got a bit lost on the way back is all.”

She frowned, unconvinced, but didn’t press the issue. “Well if you’re sure. There’s someone waiting for you upstairs, so you know.”

His heart skipped. “Thank you, darling.” And he was tearing up the stairs before she had even said goodbye. The door was unlocked, which worried him only for the seconds between opening the door and seeing the figure draped over his faded sofa, boots laying by the boor, bag of clothes perched half open on the coffee table, and Bucky’s favorite shotgun resting on the kitchen table.

“Jesus, it took you long enough,” Bucky whined from the couch, stretching so he could roll off the couch. “I’ve been back for nine hours, where the hell have you been?”

Steve pulled off his jacket. “You’ll never believe me.”

With a laugh Bucky pulled him into a tight hug, arms slung around Steve’s neck, face pressed into his cheek. It was a familiar warmth that settled Steve’s nerves and eased the tension in his shoulders, his arms sliding around Bucky’s smaller body to hold him tighter, fingers grasping at the fabric of his blue shirt. He nestled his face into Bucky’s shoulder and took a deep breath, senses overloading on his scent, the light tangy hint of sea air still clinging to him, mixing with the smell of cigars and freshly washed laundry.

“I missed you.” 

“I was only gone three days.”

“I still missed you.”

“Are you wearing Cologne?”

“No.”

Bucky pulled away. “Yes you are.” He smiled. “You finally do what I’ve been telling you and go get something fancy for yourself instead of every person on this block?”

Steve chuckled. “No.”

“Damn and here I was hoping that meant presents for me too.” 

Steve gave him one last tight squeeze and let go, moving to the kitchen to grab a couple beers from the icebox. “How did everything in Jersey go?”

“Good. nothing we need to be too worried about. I’ve left a couple boys there to keep an eye on things, help Donovan run the group down there. It’s amazing, Steve, really, how well they’re all breaking the law. You’d think booze was still legal the way it is there.” Bucky dropped back onto the couch and sighed. “It’s not too bad to visit either. We should go down a weekend, go to the beach.”

“And the shipments?”

“Regularly scheduled shipments of moonshine with armed guards to make sure it gets from New York to Atlantic City until we can set up a brewing plant down there. Which, if I go back in a week or so, I can manage because there’s two properties up for grabs and I think we could swing them for a deal. And I won’t have to shoot anybody to do it.” Bucky took a beer from Steve and smiled. “Am I good or what?”

“The best Buck,” Steve kissed the top of his head. “I knew you’d pull it off.”

He made to pull away but Bucky’s thin fingers grabbed for his tie and pulled him back in, blindly setting down his beer as he crushed their lips together, tightening his grip on the tie so Steve couldn’t argue.   
Bucky’s kisses were always slow and sweet, no panic, unless someone had almost shot them and those had happened, more often as of late. They were gentle, unlike Bucky’s disposition, his calloused hands, worn from handling rifles and guns and from bar fights and blood stains, would snake into Steve’s hair, knocking his hat away, fingers threading through his blonde hair.   
“Bucky we-” Steve tried to say during a break for air. He’d already had one close call that morning. He didn’t need people finding them entangled together on the couch. That would just lead to pointless killing of people Steve liked.

“The neighbors are gone for the day the people below us haven’t been home for a week and Meredith is too busy with her daughter. I have been in atlantic fucking city for three goddamn days with Pills I don’t much care for and Jane’s I wanted to strangle. And if you do not kiss me I am going to hurt you, don’t think I won’t,” Bucky hissed, hands fisting in the front of Steve’s shirt and yanking him onto the couch overtop of him.

“You are such a brat,” Steve muttered, kissing Bucky’s nose.

“But I’m your brat and that counts for something.” he nipped at Steve’s lip. “Now kiss me.” Bucky rolled his hips up into Steve, hands sliding down his back to hook under the waistband of his trousers.

“Any good brothels down in Jersey” Steve asked, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, Bucky’s hands sliding lower under his trousers, his blunt nails biting into his ass.

“Wouldn’t know. Too busy,” Bucky hissed as steve pressed down into him, grinding their hips together, the rough material of their wool trousers adding to the friction. “Too busy threatening people to take part.” 

“As expected.”

Bucky slid out of his suspenders, Steve fingers fiddling with the clasp on his gray trousers. “We should go down one weekend, relax on the beach, see a show...” his voice trailed off, his head falling back against the sofa cushions as Steve mouthed kisses down his neck, his hands pushing Bucky’s trousers down to his knees. “There you go, making my head all fuzzy again.”

“Maybe you should stop talking then.” Steve sat back on his heels and pulled off Bucky’s pants. He dropped back down, the couch creaking under their combined weight. Steve had always loved the way Bucky felt under him, the heat of his pale skin against his calloused fingers, the way his hips would roll up to meet him, the soft whimpers he’d make, sounds that only he would ever hear. He loved the way Bucky would get impatient, wriggling out of his underwear before Steve could help him with it, fingers tugging at Steve’s hair, pulling to the point of pain to get him to pick up the pace.  
He bit at Bucky’s swollen lip, hands roaming down to cup his ass, swallowing the low moan that followed. Bucky was just small enough to fit against him, small enough that Steve always underestimated his strength.

“C’mon, Steve, just fuck me already.” Bucky whined as Steve took the time to kiss down his chest, revelling in the scent and the way Bucky’s skin shivered under his lips, goosebumps forming as he moved lower. “Steve, hurry up!”

Steve chuckled against Bucky’s hip and reached up to cover his mouth, ignoring the snapping of teeth against his fingers.They had to be quiet. Even if their neighbors were gone and Meredith was busy, there was always a risk, always a chance and god forbid Steve lose Bucky to Prison when their whole fucking lives were spent in a twostep with death. 

“Ow!” Steve pulled his hand away sitting up to examine the two deep red marks along his pinky and ring finger. “Damn it Buck-”

Bucky hooked his leg around Steve’s and thrusted upwards with his hips, catching Steve off-balance, flipping them so he was sitting across Steve’s thighs.

“You always move too fucking slowly.” Bucky hissed into Steve’s ear, grinding against him, his cock pressed against Steve’s stomach. “I’m not a Dame.”

With a groan, Steve yielded and let Bucky set the pace. He settled back into the sofa as Bucky rocked against him in a steady rhythm, head tilted back, his eyes closed and lips parted. The way Bucky moved, Steve had always teased him, told him he could have been a dancer at one of those clubs, the kind for the wealthy men and women, where the dancers were dressed in glitzy costumes and you couldn’t really tell the guys from the gals. Bucky had growled at him, smacked him upside the head, told him that self respecting fellas would never sell themselves for such a cheap price. But the way Bucky’s hips would twist and the way his back arched as he moved would always remind Steve of one of those dancers. 

He was still half dressed when Bucky slid off him to grab the oil from the bedroom. He moved to pull off his suspenders and shirt and slip out of his trousers but Bucky was sprinting back to him before he could, straddling his hips and pressing the oil bottle into his hand. His quick fingers undid Steve’s fly and bent down to coax out his cock with his lips, his tongue teasing the head before taking it into his mouth.

“Oh god,” Steve’s head dropped to the arm of the couch, hips rolling upwards as Bucky took him deeper. He tried to focus on spreading the oil over his fingers instead of the wet heat around his cock or the way Bucky’s throat tightened as he swallowed. It wasn’t working, he could feel the heat pooling in his stomach. “Ease up, Buck, jesus.”

Bucky pulled off, lips red and swollen, precome strung from his bottom lip to the head of Steve’s cock. His eyes were dark, breathing labored as he grinned up at Steve. “Something wrong, old man?”

“You’re going to kill me you little scamp. C’mere,” Steve muttered guiding Buck over his hips and holding him there as his other hand moved between Bucky’s spread legs. “Keep quiet, you hear?”

“Oh for fucks’ sake, Steve it’s not like anyone’s going to- hnng oh lord,” Bucky whined as Steve pressed the first finger into him. He brought his hands up to his mouth, eyes clamped shut as Steve began to move the finger, twisting it slowly as the muscles tightened around it. He held Bucky at the small of his back, stroking slow and calming circles with his finger to soothe him.   
Bucky whimpered into his hands as the second finger joined the first in a sharp thrust, Steve’s fingers grazing his prostate. His hips began to move to meet Steve’s fingers, each well timed twist punctuated with a whimper and a moan, his fingers pressed against his parted lips. The third finger was quick, a few short thrusts, Bucky riding his fingers, until Steve pulled them out, wiping them on Bucky’s thigh before grabbing for the oil and slicking his cock as best he could with Bucky shaking over him. 

“Move slow, Baby, don’t hurt yourself,” Steve said gently as Bucky shifted over him, hands braced against Steve’s shoulders. Bucky did as Steve asked, moving slowly as he took Steve into him, his nails leaving sharp red marks in Steve’s shoulders. He stilled when he was seated against Steve’s balls, head bowed as Steve’s hand rubbed his back, his arms shaking. The tight heat made Steve groan, biting his lip so he wouldn’t start moving until Bucky was ready. He cupped Bucky’s chin and pulled him down for an easy kiss, no biting or tongue, just the gentle movement of their lips, warm and familiar and perfect.

Bucky started to move without warning, lifting his hips and slamming them back down groaning against Steve’s mouth as he did, nails biting Steve’s skin. Steve moved his hands to Bucky’s hips, trying to get him to slow down as he moved, rolling his hips as he started riding him at a rough pace. But Bucky would have none of that. He slapped at Steve’s grip, pulling his hands off and entwining their fingers, supporting his weight against Steve’s arms. And Steve let him have the control, let Bucky drive himself mad as he rode his cock, mouth open in silent cries. his grip on Steve’s hands so tight it almost hurt.

“Oh, S-steve, fuck,” Bucky whined, his arms staring to shake, Steve thrusting upwards to meet him, driving himself deeper into the tight, wonderful heat. “Fucking missed you.”

“Missed you too, Buck.”

A bead of red sprouted from Bucky’s lip as he bit down, Steve striking his prostate with each thrust. Steve let go of Bucky’s hands and pulled him down, kissing him and licking the thin trail of blood from his chin, his arms winding around Bucky’s body, holding him against him as he thrusted upwards in a haphazard rhythm. Bucky panted into his neck, whining, chanting his name as he drew closer to his climax.

“D-don’t let go,” he begged, fingers, tugging at Steve’s hair. “please god don’t let go.”

That was about as tender as Bucky got. He never told Steve he loved him, unless it was in jest. He never asked if they’d be together when they were older, or even in a few days. He never asked for Steve to hold him, or kiss him so he’d feel better, he never let Steve see him vulnerable, except for when Steve held him, fucking him into ecstasy, and those few panicked words would slip from his lips.

“S’alright, Bucky, I got you.” Steve would whisper, pressing light kisses into his hair. And he would hold him tightly as Bucky’s grip on his shoulders became desperate, the muscles clamping down as his whole body shook with orgasm, white heat shooting up his spine, his come coating Steve’s shirt and stomach. Steve would follow not long after, holding Bucky’s hips was he came, Bucky crying into the crook of his neck as he rode out his orgasm, Bucky’s body shaking from over stimulation. 

After a moment, their heavy breathing filling the flat, Bucky shifted and pressed a kiss to Steve’s neck, wiggling so that he could slide his arms under Steve’s shoulders in a lazy makeshift embrace. Steve moved to his side so it was more comfortable for Bucky, nuzzling his messy auburn hair as the smaller man moved against him, entwining their legs, hands fisted in Steve’s shirt.

“I’m glad you’re home,” he whispered into Bucky’s hair, breathing in a deep sigh of content, ignoring the stickiness on his stomach.

“Were you lonely, you sap?” Bucky replied with a yawn.

“Yes.”

“Ha,” Bucky kissed Steve’s nose. “We need to get you some friends, fella. You’re like a puppy. God forbid anyone find out how much of a fucking softy you are Cap.”

Steve laughed. “You’ll shoot them so I have nothing to worry about.”

“Amen to that.”

It was far from perfect, neither of them really deserved a lover to come home too, but Steve found himself too wrapped up in it to care. He loved the way Bucky would fall asleep against him, body lax and breathing easy, his usual paranoia and tension long gone, faith resting on Steve to keep him safe while he slept. He’d been doing that since they were kids, curling up next to Steve, even when Steve had been small and sickly, to share warmth and the feeling of safety. He closed his eyes, prepared to catch the bit of rest Tony had robbed from him the night before, the warmth in his chest putting him at ease.

“Wait, so where were you last night?” Bucky asked, looking up at him, suddenly more awake than Steve wanted him to be.

“uh, well, I was with the guys,” Steve said.

“Bullshit.” Bucky leveled him with a glare. “Meredith said you left in some fancy Breezer or something.” Steve sighed. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Well, Bucky had never been one for post-sex comfort.

“Ok, well, it’s complicated...”


	4. Bloodlines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’d planned for this, just in case, though Steve really hadn’t expected to be purged from his home like a rat on a ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't perfect, I need to reread through my research and make some edits, so please bare with me.

Bucky had never been one for post-sex comfort.

“Ok, well, it’s complicated...”

“Where were you last night, stud? You get all dolled up and go out without me?”

Steve sighed. “No, Buck.”

Bucky frowned. “Then what? What ain’t you telling me, Steve?” he shifted them so he was draped across Steve’s chest, his fingers toying with Steve’s flyaway blonde bangs. “Is everything ok?”

“I’m not sure.”

And there was that cheeky smile of his, the one he used to pull secrets out of Steve like Honey from the hive. “C’mon, Stevie. Where’d you go while I was gone?”

And, like clockwork, Steve caved. “I was out with Tony.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “Tony? You don’t know a Tony, Steve. The only Tony’s I know are…” Steve watched his face as he put the pieces together. “Italian.” He sat up. “You went out with a fucking Italian schmuck?”

“Bucky-”

“Goddamn it I leave you alone for three goddamn days and you start schmoozing with the Italians, I mean for god’s sake Steve.” He sat back on the couch, Steve pulling himself into a sitting position. “Did you at least shoot the bastard?”

“If I had we’d be at war at the moment.”

Bucky’s eyes widened. “You did not.”

“I can explain, Bucky.”

“The mafia is our enemy, Steve, ain’t you always preaching that? And after they snuffed Malone and O’Conner?” Bucky’s hand connected with the back of Steve’s head. “You idiot.”

“Will you shut up a minute?” Steve grabbed for Bucky’s hands and held them tightly to keep him from taking another swing. “It’s not how it sounds, Buck. The Italians didn’t kill Malone and O’Conner.”

“And you know that for a fact?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I met with their boss.”

Bucky stared at him. “You did not.”

“I did.”

“Tony as in Tony Fucking Stark? You went out with that crazy bastard? Steve are you-”

“No I am not crazy will you just listen to me?” Steve cupped his face with his hands. “Just listen a sec, ok?”

Bucky sighed. “Fine.”

“These two guys came calling saying Stark wanted to meet for Dinner, I don’t know why, but they’re both armed and you know Meredith is always down stairs with her baby girl and I don’t want to cause a ruckus, so I go with ‘em. We get to Stark’s place and he’s got this fancy ass dinner laid out and he tells me he didn’t kill our boys. And you know I don’t believe him for a second till he starts telling me the exact details of the last person his boys killed and it was three weeks ago or something and that he’s been raided too.”

Bucky’s eyebrow started to arch. “Yeah?”

“Yeah and he’s been thinking that it’s the same bastard robbing us both. And I don’t really believe him at first, but then this doctor guy comes out, who apparently works for stark and he’s patched up a bunch of our guys before without us knowing and if you think about it the only boys the Italians have killed have somehow personally pissed them off.”

“Like O’Leary, Mitchell and Greyson?”

“Exactly. And so Stark asks me if I want to do something about it and of course I do but-”

“He did not ask you to join him.”

“He asked,” Steve covered Bucky’s mouth. “If I’d be willing to help him. Not join him, not make him our leader, not surrender to his every whim, but help him catch the bastard who’s fucking with us. And then when that’s done, we, I don’t know, share the profits and split the city evenly between the three of us.”

“Three?”

“The Italians, the Russians, and us.”

Bucky laughed. “That’s bullshit.”

“Well, that’s what I was thinking. But then Stark says let’s go out for drinks and we do and he doesn’t seem like the kid of joe to fuck up a deal and-”

“You got completely jazzed off your tits and agreed?”

“No, no, no, he said to think about it and talk about it with you first.”

“He knows about me?”

“He knows everything, it’s kind of terrifying, honestly. But we went for drinks and then he shanked a guy and we went for more drinks and things got outta hand, Buck. But I think he-”

“When you say things got outta hand you mean that’s his cologne smeared all over yer cheeks, right?” Bucky laughed. “You fucked the Italian boss, oh my lord, Steve. I am never leaving you alone ever again. Ever.”

“You… You aren’t mad?”

Bucky leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Nah, confused as all hell, and not exactly thrilled, but I ain’t mad. Besides I may have banged a guy name Sebastian down in Jersey. He was one hell of a dancer.”

There was a sting in Steve’s chest, but nothing he hadn’t felt before. He and Bucky had never been exclusive. They couldn’t be, what if they were they’d be strung up in front of a gallery like common crooks. And hey, whatever made Bucky happy made Steve happy and that was that.  
“Ok, so you fucked him. Or at least you’re pretty damned sure you did since I’m guessing that bastard got you so drunk you couldn’t stand straight.” Bucky pulled out his cigarettes and struck a match on Steve’s shoe. “What next then?”

Steve shrugged and took the cigarette he offered. “Hell if I know.” Bucky lit it for him and he took a long drag, smoke billowing from his lips. “We can’t risk losing anymore boys, Buck and Stark has the best guns in the country. We mix those with our man power-”

“And we’d be a force straight outta hell. Who do you think’s messing with our stuff? The Germans?”

“Nah, there aren’t enough of them. Stark thinks it’s something new. Something we haven’t dealt with before. And since he seems to know everything about everyone, I’d believe him.” With a sigh he settled back into the couch, slinging his arm around Bucky’s shoulder. “What do you think we should do?”

“You know I don’t like them Italians. At all. They’re a bunch of scheming scumbags.”

“We aren’t much better, Buck.”

“Please, we at least gun a man down with decency. They make it look like a fucking accident. If you’re gonna kill a man have the balls to own up to it.”

“And Stark’s deal?”

“See if he’s serious and not just a crazy drunk. I’ve heard things. The man is nuts, Steve. He’s unstable but a damned good business man. He’s got parts of the city, including the police wrapped around his pinkie finger. It may not be a horrible idea. But we’d have to talk to him, see what the deal will cost us.”

“He wants to meet you, by the way.”

“Course he does,” Bucky smiled. “I’m a threat to him. He wants to know who’s gonna kill him if he turns on you. And you can bet your ass it’ll be me.”

“I dunno Buck, he doesn’t seem the kind of man to double cross a friend.”

“Steve, babe, you slept with him one time. I highly doubt that one round of whoopee gave you insight into his soul.”

Steve made to reply but Bucky held up a hand, shushing him, cigarette dangling between his fingers. “You hear that?”

“Hear what?” Steve strained his ears, waiting in silence to pick up on the sounds Bucky’s sharp ears could hear. And there it was, the sound of a scuffle, muffled shouts, panic, pain.

“Meredith.”

Steve jumped up and ran to the door. Three armed men were down on the first floor, two covered in blood the third preoccupied with Meredith, who was pressed up against the wall, butcher’s knife wedged between her ribcage, the life quickly draining out of her.

“Steve?” Bucky whispered from the flat.

“Grab your bags. Now. Go.” Steve darted back into the flat, one of the men shouting to the others that he had been spotted. Bucky grabbed for his already packed bag before going for the bag of guns in the bedroom. Steve made a quick job of things. Grabbing the papers, the phone numbers, the documents about his boys, grabbing the guns and maps and booze, as much as he could carry. Bucky tossed him a bag of clothes and proceeded to load his gun.

“How many?”

“Three at least.”

“They should be up here by now.”

“Maybe they had another idea.”

“God willing it’s get their sorry ass out of here before I-” A crash sounded from the window, a small round ball landing on the floor and rolling to the center of the living room. “Grenade!”

Steve grabbed for the bag, shielding Bucky with his free arm and made for the back window that lead out onto the roof. They’d planned for this, just in case, though Steve really hadn’t expected to be purged from his home like a rat on a ship. They had seconds to move to the next rooftop before the grenade went off and the building went up in a roar of flames and debris, the bodies of Meredith and her family lost in the blaze.  
Then began the gunfire. Whoever it was had stationed snipers and gunmen on the surrounding roofs, with orders to open fire as soon as Steve and Bucky were in sight. The two made for the fire escape, bullets ricocheting off the metal and lodging themselves into the brick wall.  
“These the same assholes stark was telling you about?” Bucky asked, opening fire on the men closest to them, their bodies dropping like flies on the rooftop.

“Most likely.”

“Good then I don’t mind killing them.” And another three men fell.

There was a car waiting for them in the back alley, left there by Dum–Dum or Francois. If they could get to it in one piece they’d be home free. He grabbed the back of Bucky’s shirt and pulled him down the escape with him, landing on the asphalt with Bucky in his arms.

“Two men behind you Steve.” He set Bucky down and let him fire, handing him another round of ammunition before pulling out his own gun.

The gunfire was coming from everywhere, the sound echoing around the alley. Steve couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from, unless the man shooting was stupid enough to show himself. He took out two, still moving quickly towards the car, Bucky behind him covering their escape from the rear.

And then he fell.

Steve didn’t know who had shot him or where it came from, but with a cry of agony, Bucky fell to the ground, clutching his left arm to his chest, blood quickly soaking the ground. Steve grabbed him, lifted him into his arms and made a mad rush for the car, reaching it and dropping Bucky in the back seat. A bullet hit his shoulder as he climbed inside, pain searing through his chest.  
“Steve, hurry.” Bucky hissed from the back seat, clutching his limp left arm, the blood trickling down his arm and coating the leather seat. “Go to dum-dum’s.”

“Can’t Buck. Just hold tight. You need a doctor.”

“I’ll be f-fine.”

“You need a fucking Doctor, don’t you argue with me. hold tight, you’ll be ok.”

Steve gunned it, pulling out of the alley with the tires shrieking behind him, the flames of the apartment building arching upwards towards the sky. He tried not to focus on Bucky’s whimpers, tried not to focus on the fact that three innocent people were now dead, adding to the ever growing list. He drove his foot onto the gas petal, speeding through the city streets, reaching back to grasp for Bucky’s hand.

As far as he was concerned, if this wasn’t the Italians, Stark had a deal.

*   
The morning sun had finally passed over the terrarium, the crystal ceiling and walls casting faint streaks of color across the garden inside. Bruce lay curled on the daybed, pile of books resting on the ground beside him, eyes closed, glasses askew on his nose. Tony had built the terrarium with him in mind, or so he had said the morning the construction crew had shown up unannounced to Bruce. He’d even put in a pond, with colorful Koi moving slowly under the clear surface. It was his haven and most days, once his work was done, if there was any work to do since Tony had a tendency to keep Bruce’s work load light and easy without being asked to, he could be found reading or tending to the plants. Or, like that morning, napping on the daybed by the pond. It was where he found peace.

Well, most days anyway.

“Bruce. Bruce. Bruce. Bruce. Bruce. Bruce. Bruce. Bruce. Bruce,” came the whining chant. Bruce sighed and rolled over, face pressed into the curving back of the ornate daybed, trying to block out the sound.

“Bruce? Bruce? Brucie? Bruce. Bruce. Bruce.”

He took another breath and waited, counting down from ten. At five, the dead weight of Tony’s body landed on top of him, scruffy face pressed into his chest, arms flailing. By two Tony had settled, laying limp overtop of him like a blanket. At zero he started to whine, as predictable as a child.

“Bruce wake up,” He moaned into Bruce’s shirt, shifting so that his cheek was nuzzled against the bit of skin peeking out from where Bruce had unbuttoned his shirt. “I’m bored.”

“That’s nice, Tony.”

“Can we go shoot someone?”

“No, Tony.”

“But why?”

“Because it’s a waste of ammo and a mess I have to clean up.” Bruce propped Tony up for a moment so he could twist onto his back before lowering him back down, scratching Tony’s hair. “Why don’t you go build something?”

“I’m waiting for more materials. Can we go for drinks?”

“Tony it’s eleven in the morning.”

“I fail to see your point.” Tony grumbled, slipping his arms around Bruce’s chest, hooking his legs under Bruce’s knees. “Mm, you’re comfy.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re pretty.”

“uh-huh.”

“Can we have sex?”

“No, Tony I’m not your personal hooker.”

“But I’m bored.”

“Then do something other than molest Bruce.”

Bruce chuckled and tilted his head back, looking up to the rafters. “Clint how long have you been hiding up there?”

Clint’s nimble body moved quickly, dropping from the rafter, grabbing hold and swinging down like an acrobat, landing gracefully on the back on the daybed, not even swaying for balance. “Got here just before you dozed off.”

“You’re supposed to be in Boston, smartass,” Tony mumbled into Bruce’s chest, not moving to release him.

“I was in boston and now I’m home, asshole. And you’re welcome, by the way.” Clint took a swing at the back of Tony’s head. Bruce reached out to intercept it and entwined his fingers with Clint’s instead.

“I don’t have to thank you for doing your damn job.”

“Tony,” Bruce soothed.

“You killed the bastard?”

“Yep.” Clint nodded.

“In horribly awful and creative ways?”

“Yep.” A smile.

“And no one knew it was you?”

“Nope.”

“I could kiss you.”

“No.”

“Damn, you both are pills.”

Bruce curled forward and kissed the top of Tony’s head. “Yep, a couple of pills we are. Besides you got laid pretty good last night didn’t you?”

Clint snickered. “Oh did you now, boss?”

“Shut up.” Tony grumbled, swatting at him feebly.

“You’re having regrets?” Bruce asked in surprise.

“I’m Tony fucking Stark, I don’t regret shit.”

“Then go have a glass of whiskey or gin or something equally disgusting to celebrate and be done with your moping.” Bruce nudged him and Tony slid off the couch and onto the stone floor with a drawn out whine.

“And people think you’re actually intimidating,” Clint muttered, taking Tony’s place on the couch. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, they’re shitting themselves for nothing.”

“A shove off you prick, I’m hungover. I can be very menacing and evil when my blood isn’t seventy percent booze,” Tony mumbled, covering his eyes in attempt to block out the light, his head throbbing.

“Sure you can boss.”

“Asshole.”

Clint looked up. “You boys hear that?”

There was a car driving up the front path like hell itself was on it’s heels. Tony sat up, Bruce sliding off the couch to go to the wall of windows for a better look.

“Friends of yours, Tony?” He asked, fixing his glasses.

“I’m not expecting anyone,” Tony said, Clint helping him to his feet. “But then who ever is these days.”

Bruce frowned. “I think I see bullet holes in the doors.”

“Welcome to New York,” Clint teased with a shrug. Tony glared at him. “Is it one of ours?”

“Not one I recognize.”

Tony sighed. “Clint grab a gun or two, Bruce stay a few steps behind me.” He redid the buttons of his shirt.   
By the time they reached the foyer, Jarvis had the door open and was helping their “guests” inside as best he could, considering one was unconscious and covered in the blood and the other was about ready to collapse. Tony skidded to a halt in the doorway, eyes wide, Clint and Bruce behind him.  
“Jesus christ, rogers, what in the hell-”

“Help me, you bastard,” Steve shouted. “Staring’s doing no good.”

Bruce moved Tony out of the way and helped Steve lay Bucky’s body on the floor. “What happened?”

Steve took a deep, shaking breath. “I don’t know. We were ambushed. I thought it was you, but-”

“How many times do I have to tell you, you dumb oaf, before you see sense.” Tony crouched down next to Bruce, rolling up his sleeves. “I ain’t trying to kill you. Help me lift him, Steve. Bruce, grab your supplies, Clint go with him help him with whatever he needs, Jarvis grab as many fresh towels and bedsheets as you can and several bowls of warm water. We’ll be in the sickroom. Be quick, he’s lost a lot of blood.”

With gentle hands, the two lifted Bucky and moved him upstairs to the last room of the East Wing. Above the door Tony had inscribed “Sick Room” in fancy golden script. They set Bucky down on the bed and Tony set about stripping him of his ruined shirt and trousers, not noticing the blood that quickly coated his hands.

“What can I do?” Steve asked, his voice breaking. He took a deep breath and tried to steady himself. “Stark I-”

“I will shoot you Rogers, even if your Baby is laying near death,” Tony snapped, not looking up from his examination of Bucky’s arm, four bullet holes clearly visible in the bicep and forearm. “What are you to call me?”

“Tony,” Steve corrected. “Tony what can I do?”

Tony glanced up at him, eyes catching sight of the blood on his right shoulder. “You can sit down before you pass out and let Bruce take a look at your shoulder before it gets infected and you lose your goddamn arm.”

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit, Rogers, you sit your blonde ass down or I will chain you to the chair, capisce?”

“Fix Bucky first.”

Tony sighed and looked up at him, hands stilling on Bucky’s chest. Steve was pale, dark circles under his eyes, his hands shaking, a sheen of sweat on his brow. He looked on the verge of breaking, eyes fixed on his friend’s face.

“Roll up your sleeves, I’ll need you to help restrain him. I don’t know how damaged the limb is but there’s a chance he may lose it,” tony explained, holding up a hand to silence Steve’s panic. “I know that isn’t the preferred option, but Rogers, there’s little else to be done if his arm has been through the mill.” 

“We don’t know that yet, Tony.” Bruce said, hurrying in the door with his medical bag in hand, Clint following behind with a box of tools. He set them down, gave Bucky and Steve a quick once over, shot Tony a look and left. “Where’s Jarvis with the hot water?”

“Here sir.”

“Brilliant. Steve, help him. Set a bowl over here and the others on the far table, we’ll need them. Tony can you get the morphine please, and a clean syringe?” Bruce gave his orders in a calm, soft voice as he set about cleaning the drying blood from Bucky’s arm, four bullet holes now clear as day, each a dark ugly red against the pale skin. His fingers quickly skimmed the wounds, checking the rest of the limb for lacerations or infections, noting the previous scars and healing scabs.

“Banner, is he-?”

“He’ll live, no doubt, he didn’t lose as much blood as it looks like.” Bruce felt for a pulse and began digging around in his bag. “But please sit down before you topple over. I’m not operating on two dying bodies at once, Captain.”

Steve made to argue but Tony leveled him with glare, made much more intimidating by the very large needle and syringe held in his hand, so he sat. He watched as Tony and Bruce worked, quick and smooth like a well oiled machine. How much practice had they had? How many of their own friends had they patched up or deemed deceased before they were this good at the job? And where had Tony learned it? Where had he found the crazy notion that a mob boss should be elbow deep in another’s man’s blood in order to save a life, rather than end it?

“Steve.” Tony’s face held a grave frown, his hand resting on the top on Bucky’s auburn hair. “Your boy’s gonna live but-”

“Tony you can’t take his arm. He’s a sniper, he can’t function without it. It’d be like killing him,” Steve got to his feet. “You can’t.”

“It’s either that or it gets infected. Or he wanders around with a useless limb dangling from his torso.” Bruce set out a bottle of Chloroform. He then began laying out his surgical tools, all well cleaned and new, which was some sort of relief. “Amputation, though crude and messy, and somewhat difficult, will at least allow for him to function a bit more normally. And there’s always prosthetics.”

All movement stopped at the soft whimper that sounded from the bed. Bucky’s cloudy brown eyes were opened.

“Stevie?” he asked, reaching out weakly with his good arm.

“I’m here. You’re ok.” Steve took his hand and tried to smile. “I got you a doctor Buck, you’re gonna be ok.”

“Why’s he gotta knife?” Bucky whispered, eyes darting around the room, falling on Bruce who’d produce a set of knives and a small saw from the box of tools. “Stevie?”

“We don’t really have a choice Steve,” Tony said in a low voice. He looked sad. 

Steve gave Bucky’s hand a tight squeeze, running a hand gently through his messy hair to calm him. “Your arm’s messed up, Buck. He’s going to fix it, make it better.”

“Don’t you... lie to me, Steve,” Bucky said. “Don’t you dare.”

“I’m sorry, James.”

Steve saw fear fill Bucky’s eyes. They never used his real name unless something was horribly wrong. The grip on his hand tightened to the point of pain, Bucky’s breathing becoming panicked as he tried to fight his way off the bed, his body too weak to even sit up fully. Steve pressed him back into the bed and kissed his forehead, holding him down with a hand on his chest. Tony moved forward with a chloroform cloth and another syringe of morphine, enough to numb the pain for a several hours. 

“Hold him still for me Steve.”

And Steve did, fighting the urge to pull Bucky off the bed and hold him, fighting the urge to cry and strangle Tony at the same time. He held Bucky’s struggling body to the bed as Tony pressed the cloth to his mouth and waited for the man’s eyes to flutter shut and his body to go limp before giving him the morphine shot. Steve felt the strength seep out of his body, his arms becoming heavy as he let go to Bucky, his chest aching as he tried to breathe.

“Steve, maybe you should sit outside,” Bruce offered, touching his shoulder.

“No. He needs me.”

“Steve,” Tony said in a steady, don’t-you-argue-with-me-I’m-the-boss voice. Steve had one of his own, he knew the sound and how damn useful it could be. “Go sit outside. Jarvis will bring you something to drink I’ll come get you as soon as it’s done.” He set down the syringe and sloth and moved to steve’s side, hooking his arm around Steve’s elbow and steering him towards the door. “I promise, it’s going to be alright. We’ll take care of him like he was our own.”

They stepped into the hall, Clint sitting on the banister with thompson resting in his lap. “Clint, this is Steve. Steve, this is Clint. Please don’t kill each other. Clint, be nice or so help me I’ll strangle you,” Tony snapped. Clint stuck out his tongue like a child but moved to put away the gun.   
Tony pushed Steve into a chair. “Just stay here. Jarvis will be up in a minute.” He moved to go join Bruce. Steve grabbed for him, fingers curling around Tony’s thin wrist.

“Tony. He’s all I have,” Steve choked out. “Please.”

A few seconds passed in silence, Tony’s eyes scanning Steve’s face, emotions finally showing through the cracks in his soldier facade, his fingers still around the other man’s wrist in desperate need for reassurance. Tony leaned down and pressed a kiss to Steve’s forehead, before pulling his hand free and disappearing into the room, leaving Steve to sit in silence with nothing to do but pray.


	5. Call in the Cavalry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I need you to call a meeting," Tony said, rubbing his eyes. "Something's happened. We need to take care of it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More may be added to this chapter I'm not sure yet.

By evening, the surgery was complete. Steve was not allowed into the room until it was cleaned, which due to the amount of blood and mess the two men had left behind, would take several hours for the maids to accomplish. So Bruce, once he'd washed up, took him down to the kitchen for food, while Tony made a phone call.

"Hello, Potts speaking."

"Pep, it's me," Tony said, reclining in his chair, the door to the study closed, drapes drawn, lamps light low. He'd yet to put on a new shirt, blood stains already set in the pristine light blue of his button down. 

"Tony? What's wrong you sound like shit."

"I need you to call a meeting," Tony said, rubbing his eyes. "Something's happened. We need to take care of it."

"Who died?"

"No one."

"Yet?"

He smiled. "No one yet. I'll explain when you get here, Doll, just call the boys together, have them come here for drinks or something. It's a bit of a mess."

"Sure thing, Tony. Save me some of that Rum though, Love. You drank it all last time." He could hear her fingers typing on the new typewriter he'd bought her last Christmas. "I'll have the boys there in an hour."

"Thanks, Darling."

He hung up the phone and sighed, resting his head on the cool surface of the desk. This was not how he'd planned things to happen. Steve wasn't supposed to agree to the deal in a fit of rage and emotion. That was no way to do business. And damn the way he looked at his lieutenant, like he was perfect. Damn it all to hell.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Jarvis." Tony looked to the doorway, where Jarvis stood, silent and unmoved by the amount of blood on Tony's shirt and trousers.

"You have a visitor."

"Right then, send them in."

Jarvis gave a sharp nod and moved aside for the woman who strode quickly into the room. Her dark eyes glanced around the room, taking in the blood on Tony's shirt, the disheveled state of his hair and clothes, and a wry smile spread across her lips.

"My, my, Tony, what mess have you made now?" She asked. Tony smiled at the accent, heavy and luxurious and intimidating all at once, framed by a gorgeous porcelain face and fiery red hair. She removed her white fur cape, black gloved hands offering it to Jarvis, her black dress tight fitting, snug around her bust and hips, black lace across her collar bone, her pantyhose freshly pressed that morning. A stunning picture of cold beauty. "Am I going to have to tidy up for you again?"

Tony got to his feet and kissed her cheek. "No, but I do need your help, Tasha, darling. Though it pains me to admit it."

She smiled. "Ah you men and your pride." She took the seat Tony offered her and folded her hands in her lap. "What's happened, then? Is this about the raids?"

"More or less, I'm afraid. You know Rogers?"

"The Captain?" Natasha's thin eyebrows arched. "What of him?"

"He's two floors down, half dead from exhaustion. His right hand man is laying at the end of the hall, pale as a fucking ghost and missing a limb," Tony explained, pouring two drinks and offering a glass to Natasha before sitting down. 

"Cute. What makes that my problem?"

"Because we need him."

She laughed. "Oh do we now?"

"Yes," Tony sighed. "He has more men than the two of us, more men who are stupidly loyal enough to take on an army from hell for him. And, now he has personal beef with whoever is fucking with you and I."

"He still hasn't gone for your deal?"

"We haven't had the chance to talk, he's not doing well with," Tony waved his had absently. "All this hoopla."

"And what makes you think this is going to make him agree?" Natasha set down her drink and folded her hands carefully in her lap. "I'm not even sure it's a good idea, let alone if it will work."

"We'll get to that, and excuse you it will work, it's my plan, Miss Romanov." Tony stood. "Now. What I need from you love, is information."

"It won't come cheap, darling. You know that."

"We need to know who called that hit on Rogers."

"And you think I can figure that nonsense out?"

"Your girls must know something. Or your copper friends. Or your boys down at the docks." Tony knelt down in front of her, hands on the arm of the chair. "I just need a scent, something for my boys to follow. Then Cupid'll find him, drag his sorry ass back here, and we can kill him slowly and painfully. We'll make a soiree out of it." He took her hand. "Please, Tasha, I need some help here."

Natasha mused a moment, a smile betraying her unmoved expression. "I need guns. The brothels keep getting hit, the boys and ladies need guns. Your guns."

"How many we talking?"

"As many as you can get me under the radar. I've had the coppers trailing me lately. I need new pistols, small ones for the girls, thompsons, and whatever new toys you can throw in."

"Deal."

Natasha blinked. "What, no bartering?" 

Tony shook his head. "Too much to do, darling."

"You're no fun when you try to be serious." She got to her feet, straightening her dress. "Well I'll see if the girls know anything and get back to you. I must be going I have a show tonight."

"Stork Club?"

"Jamesons."

"Oh, well now aren't you a swanky little thing. I'll have to drop in one night." Tony kissed the knuckles of her left hand.

"You're welcome to join me tonight," she said. "I could always use a dance partner."

"No, Rogers needs me."

Natasha laughed. "Sentimentality and compassion are strange on you, Anthony. I hope this isn't a normal shade for you, this caring about random strangers. It is unbecoming of you and your profession."

"I'll make a note. Be safe, Tasha." Tony slipped the cape onto her shoulders and kissed her cheek.

"Mind your Back, Anthony." She said and with a quick turn and the clicking of her heels, floral perfume tickling Tony's nose, she disappeared out the door. 

Tony sighed and leaned back against his desk, finishing the last bit of his whiskey. Natasha was quick and cunning, they'd have names in a day or so. But that wasn't enough. This was a failure, a personal failure. A Possible Ally had nearly lost his best man. It was a direct insult. Tony would not have it. 

As far as he was concerned, the hit on Barnes and Rogers was an act of War.

*

Steve picked at the rough wooden tabletop under his hands. Bruce sat across from him, head in his heads, untouched glass of brandy sitting by his elbow. A Heavy silence hung in the musty kitchen air.

"He'll be okay though, right Doc?" Steve asked. His own voice sounded foreign to his ears, shaken, coarse, uneasy. He grabbed for his own pint to keep his hands busy, to help stop the fidgeting.

"He'll live. There should be little to no infection. We stopped the bleeding, cauterized the wound, disinfected as best we could. He," Bruce sighed and wiped his eyes. "he'll be alright, by definition. But I gotta tell you, Steve. He won't be the same fella. I mean, can a sniper even be a... A Sniper if they've lost an arm?" The doctor looked more defeated than Steve did, which Steve found silly, because they'd saved Bucky's life. They should be celebrating but Bruce looked so damn scared.

"There's a chance he could train himself."

Steve looked up. Clint was sitting on the counter top. He'd entered silently, unannounced, made Steve wonder how long he'd been sitting there listening. "Could he?"

"It's possible but difficult. And his aim is going to be shit compared to what it was. And as a fellow marksman, I can say that's going to kill him. There's always a chance, but no promise that everything will be Jake." Clint said with a shrug. 

Steve sighed and ran his hand through his hair, tugging at it lightly to try and relieve the pressure in his head. How could he have let this happen? Bucky was his responsibility and what had he done to honor that? Fucked up his livelihood. He shouldn't have given Tony the go ahead, Bucky would probably never really forgive him for it. But-

Steve wasn't ready to lose someone he loved, not again, not so soon. Maybe Bucky would come to forgive him, in time. Until then Steve just had to hold onto the fact that Bucky was still here, still breathing, still alive.

"But Chin up there, Cap. Could have been worse," Clint added as a second thought. "He got lucky."

"He won't think so."

"He will in time," Bruce assured. "He will."

The three looked up at the sound of engines roaring past the window. A few sedans, a couple motorbikes, and a van rolled past, pulling to a stop near the vicinity of the front door.

"Are we having a shindig?" Clint asked, climbing across the counter to get a better look out the small basement window. "Bossman didn't say nothing about a shindig."

"Clint get down," Bruce chided. "one of those sounds like Cicero's Iron, got the clanking in the exhaust. You think he's calling a meeting?"

"Looks like."

A soft cough sounded from the door, signalling Jarvis's silent arrival.

"What's going on, Jarvis?" Clint asked, climbing off the counter.

"Master Anthony has called a meeting he requests that you and the Doctor join him in the study," Jarvis explained, Clint having slipped past him before he'd even finished speaking. Bruce sighed and got to his feet slowly, shuffling after Clint.  
"He also requests that you join him, Captain," Jarvis added. Bruce stopped in the doorway to wait.

"Me? The hell does he need me for? It ain't my business," Steve replied, pouring more brandy into his glass. 

"Apparently it pertains to your wounded friend upstairs, sir. Or so Master Anthony tells me. He believes it is very much your business."

"Al-alright then." steve got up and followed Bruce, bringing along the glass of brandy for a bit of extra nerve. He still wasn't himself yet, not after the events of the day, and really who could blame him?  
Bruce lead him back to the very study in which Steve had met Tony the day before. Tony was leaning against his desk, freshly bathed and primped for the occasion, his blood soaked clothes replaced with a crimson shirt, black vest and trousers and a silver cravat. His hair was combed neatly away from his face, goatee freshly trimmed. He looked much more at home in the grandeur of Stark Mansion than he had the day before. All amusement and mischief had left his posture, all humor gone from his face.   
The men around him were all equally well dressed, Jarvis making rounds to collect fedoras and overcoats. They each knelt down and kissed the knuckles of Tony's hand, muttering greetings in Italian and English. Tony barely moved to acknowledge them. He stood silent, as still as death. Steve felt Bruce shudder next to him.

"He's furious," Bruce said in a choked voice, shrinking back into the shadowy corner they were standing in. Clint had taken his place perched in Tony's desk, 45 sitting lazily in his lap. 

"Furious?"

"He's only ever this quiet when he's angry. Angry enough to hurt someone."

Tony looked over ot them and Steve made to join him at the front of the room. If this meeting was about him and Bucky it only made sens.e But Tony shook his head, a short, abortive movement and Steve stilled, a chill running through him. There was something very unsettling about the man being silent. Tony held up his hand the the quiet mutterings and whispers ceased in an instant.

"Gentleman. And Lady," Tony added, leaning back to kiss the hand of the slim red head sitting behind his desk. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. I realize that it is late and quite the inconvenience for some of you. I have called this meeting because it has come to my attention that an error has been made. A grave error, one that will take much time and effort to correct."

The men looked around in confusion. Tony didn't give them a chance to speak up in reply.  
"As I'm sure you're all aware, at eleven am this very morning, a hit was called on two very important individuals, The "Captain" Steve Rogers and his Lieutenant, Sergeant James Barnes, both of whom you are all familiar with."

"Well yeah, course, that piker Barnes shot me and killed my brother," one man piped up. "Got what was coming to him the-"

A gunshot silenced him, the bullet lodging itself in the wall besides his head, Clint not even looking up to make sure he's missed his mark. 

"Apologies, Don Tony," The man muttered, dropping his head and falling silent. 

"A hit was called on them this morning, their apartment blown to smithereens, their innocent neighbors brutally murdered. They were then chased from their home under gunfire and in the fray, Sergeant Barnes was shot four times in the left arm. He is currently resting in the sick room at the end of the hall."

More hushed murmurings.

"Now," Tony cleared his throat and looked around the room. "Who would like to tell me, why exactly that Hit was carried out, unopposed, at eleven am this morning, resulting in such, catastrophic results?"

Silence.

"Well? Does anyone have an answer for me?" Tony asked, looking from one man to the next. "Anyone?"

"Cause it ain't our business, sir," One man in the front of the room offered. "I mean, that's the mob's problem right? It ain't our job to keep them alive."

Tony laughed, a sharp, biting sound that made Bruce jump. "Not your job? that's it? It's not your job, Carlini? Or your job, Marcello? Or your's Gio?" The men stared at him as he chuckled and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Did no one," Tony shouted. "Did none of you sons of bitches listen to a goddamn word that came out of my mouth at the last gathering?"

a chill settled over the room, Bruce stepping as far back against the wall as he could, practically hiding behind Steve's larger figure. Clint glanced over at them before turning his attention back to Tony.

"Boss?" another man asked.

"I made my intentions with the mob, very clear, did I not?" he turned to the slim Red head. "Pepper, doll, please explain to these, Buffoons, what it was I said last week, please."

"Don Tony aims to strike a deal with them," the woman said, sitting forward in the chair. The men all turned their attention to her. Steve hadn't seen a woman as commanding as that since, well, Peggy. She was small, this Pepper, and unassuming, but all eyes fell on her as she spoke. "He ordered that they be kept under watch until such a time as the deal is struck. Becuase we can't right strike a deal with corpses now can we?"

The men muttered like scolded, angry children.

"The Mob is an asset," Tony said in a shaking voice. "Yes, I am well aware of what you think of them. They are dogs, scum, the pitiful remains of a barbaric country of drunks and whores. They are not worthy of your time or the mud on your shoes. My father treated them the same way."  
Tony glanced at Steve to see if he was listening. "But as I'm sure you're all quite aware that I'm not my father. And we cannot survive, we cannot continue this fifty, sixty year rule, if we cannot make the most of our situation. And this situation is this: we must befriend our old enemies, love them, care for them, and work with them. Because otherwise we sink and they'll be finding your bodies in meat packing plants or the harbor."

He took a breath and looked around the room, sighing. "So what I would like to know, is why some punk assed welp who doesn't even have the fucking decency to show his ugly mug in daylight, was able to gun down Rogers' apartment at eleven in the fucking morning with a bunch of torpedoes on the fucking rooftops, under my watch!" he roared, the men flinching at the sharpness of his voice, cringing and shirking away form him, heads bowed, shoulders at their ears in fear and shame.

"What does that make us? huh? That makes us failures!" Tony took a sharp breath. "I do not look kindly on failure. And this, this was an insult, a personal insult to me, and you Bastardos let it happen! Where were you? Huh? Boozing? Sleeping off hangovers in bed with some broad? This was an order, I had given. A direct order you ignored."

Steve couldn't tear his eyes away from him. There was so much power in the man's voice, such a rage Steve hadn't expected. He knew each boss had their own ways of getting their boys to listen. Steve never raised his voice, he knew it scared them more if he was quiet. But there was something beautiful, that was the only word he could think of, about the mastery of Tony's power and the display, the way the men cowered before him, the way he made himself fill the room without so much as moving. And then, oh then, the Italian starts, loud, boisterous, angry shouts of the language, swearing no doubt, damning the men for their neglect. But it was poetic, if Steve had ever witnessed something that could be described as poetic, the langue mixed with the deeply rooted rage, the light color in Tony's cheeks, the abrupt movements, the flowing sweeps of his hands as he shouted. It was a piece of theatre, placed upon the stage, each movement carefully chosen, each word perfectly timed.

And then it was over. Tony fell silent again, the men all bowing their heads around him, wringing their hands together, men who were twice Tony's size, broader, stronger too if Steve were to gander. All of them bowed to Tony waiting for his next and probably final word.

"Now," his voice was soft, gentle. "Luckily this error can be corrected." Then men looked up. "I want these goddamn thugs brought to me. As many as you can find, as high up in their slimy ranks as you can get. And I want the man who shot Barnes delivered to me, alive, and unharmed. Am I clear?"  
Muttered replies.

"I said, am I clear?"

"Yes, Don Tony."  
"Si, Senore."  
"Yessir."

"Good." Tony looked up. "Rogers, if you would join me please."

Steve moved forward, the group of men parting easily around him, shouts of shock and surprise and sputters of anger following him until he stood next to Tony. He put his arm around Steve's back since he wasn't tall enough to drape his arm round his shoulders. He held up a hand and the men fell silent.

"Rogers will be staying here until Barnes recovers. If you are to converse with him, you will show him the same respect you show me. Capisce?"

"Si, Don Tony."

"You will not anger him, mock him, or make any comments in regards to BArnes unless you are expressing your deepest and most sincere apologies. Capisce?"

"Si, Don Tony."

"And from this point forward, until a deal is struck between the two of us, the Mob is to be treated as an ally. Which means if you have a specific grudge with a specific person, you come to me and we will settle it. Capisce?"

"Si, Don Tony."

"Then it's settled. Now, if you all can do something properly, I want blood, I want to repay the insult. Bring me these scumbags, alive, and horribly afraid, as soon as fucking possible. We are going to send a message to this punk that he has chosen the wrong city for his shit."

Steve remained silent as the men agreed and moved to kiss Tony's hand again, before gathering their coats and leaving in a frenzie. Tony watched them go with a well set frown on his face, arms crossed over his chest. Then Pepper began to clap, a slow, almost mocking sound.

"Well done," she said with a laugh. "You almost had me scared for a second. Thought you were going to have Cupid here shoot someone like he did at Thanksgiving."

In seconds Tony's harsh facade faded and he laughed, eyes tired, shoulder sagging just enough for Steve to notice, a bit of life flodding back into his face.  
"Nah, I'm short on lieutenants anyway, can't go killing them," he said. "You okay, Brucey?"

Clint had moved across the room to where Bruce was sitting on the floor, face in his hands. He helped the doctor to his feet and kept an arm tightly around him.  
"You know I hate these things, Tony. You know I do," Bruce said in a weak voice, hands shaking. Clint held them in his.

"I know, Brucey, I know," Tony went to him and kissed his forehead. "I'm sorry, but I wanted you here. They need to know you're still here, okay? This is a family matter, and you're family."

"I know, I know, just-"

"I'm sorry for shouting."

Bruce hugged him, kissed his neck, before following Clint out of the room, fingers entwined. Tony sighed.

"His nerves aren't very sturdy. He hasn't had a good run of things, was about ready to blow his brains out when I found him. He can't take a lot of commotion, doesn't so his heart any good." he moved back to the desk, Pepper reclining in the chair and setting her feet atop the desk. 

"He seems to love you quite a bit," Steve mused.

"Well, when you have nothing, those who show you kindness and love become your everything," Tony said. "Pepper, doll can you get us some drinks?"

"Sure, babe."

"So what, I'm your pet now? Your house guest?" Steve asked. "What is this Stark? We barely know each other and now here we are having drinks in your study like old pals. What do you even get out of this, other than your deal?"

Tony was quiet as Pepper handed them their drinks. "Sometimes, Steve, acts of goodwill are really just that. Acts of goodwill." He took a drink. "We live in a god awful world, Steve, a world where men kill their wives and children for no apparent reason, a world where children are roped into gangs or killed so they don't grow up to challenge them, a world where the government is so corrupt an honest man will be dead before he can step foot in the capital."  
He reached out and took Steve's hand. "We need friends in a world like this. And sometimes, an act of goodwill is all that is needed to extend an offer of friendship."

"So what, you just want to be friends?" Steve asked lightly with a teasing smile.

"Sure, it couldn't hurt. Besides, you're cute," Tony winked at him. "Now c'mon, let's go see your boy. The Morphine should be wearing off by now."


	6. Like Clockwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let it be known that when Tony Stark promises a miracle, he delivers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if this is awful, it's three am in the middle of an effing hurricane.

It would be four days before he saw Tony again. At first Steve just thought he’d gone out of town on business without saying anything, to Chicago or Atlantic City. But that wasn’t the case. According to Bruce he was just locked in the Attic.

“The Attic?” Steve repeated over breakfast. He and Bruce were seated together in the terrarium, sharing coffee and cakes, Clint still sleeping and Tony nowhere to be found.

 

Bruce chuckled. “No he didn’t just accidentally get locked up there. It’s his workshop. When he gets an idea he’ll disappear for days. Leaves Pepper and Clint in charge of things”

 

“How long do you think he’ll be up there?” Steve asked, pouring himself another cup of rich black coffee.

 

“Well the record is a month so who can really say. He was building something special for a friend,” he added when Steve choked on his drink. “He gets really carried away.”

 

Four days. In that time Steve returned to Brooklyn to get things in order. Dum-Dum was in charge, being third in command and all. They upped security and patrols, planned for more recruitment from those who owed debts, and sent four more men down to Atlantic City to be safe. They weren’t happy to be buddying up with The Italians, even with the gifts Bruce had sent along, new guns, several bottle of fine wine, and some pocket watches Tony had built himself, among other little trinkets and toys. They weren’t happy about it, but they would follow orders, which was all Steve cared about at that point.

 

Steve spent the rest of his time, when he wasn’t in Brooklyn or spending the hours with Bruce, at Bucky’s side. He was still being kept on high doses of Morphine, allowed only an hour or two of consciousness to give his psyche a break, as Bruce so artfully put it. He’d been off the medication for too long on the second day and he’d tried to leave the bed, the sight of the stump where his left had given way to panic. Day three and he was still angry with Steve, but he wasn’t feigning sleep to avoid conversation, so Steve couldn’t really complain.

 

“So he’s the Italian?” Bucky asked. “The one you fucked while I was away?” He lay on the downy pillows, tucked under several quilts, Steve seated on the bed next to him.

 

“Yes.”

 

“See, when you said Tony, I didn’t think you were crazy enough to mean that Tony.” Bucky chuckled. “Can’t really blame you though, he’s a handsome sonnova bitch I’ll give him that.”

 

“I’m sorry, Buck.” Steve muttered, fiddling with the fraying edges of the top quilt.

 

“Don’t be. Hell, fuck him again if you want.” And there was that devilish smile, the one that said, even after all this, that things were going to turn out right. “You like him then cash in. You ain’t exclusively mine, Stevie.”

 

That being said, Steve didn’t expect to be falling into bed with Tony any time soon, if ever again. Or so he thought.

 

Day four, Bucky’s first hour of consciousness was drawing to a close. Steve was reading to him, Fitzgerald’s newest book. Bucky was propped up against him, seated in his lap, eyes closed as Steve rubbed gently at the crown of his head. It was lovely, the kind of peace the two never had the chance to share. Someone was always dying or being shot at or being robbed or lord knows what and they best they could do was a kiss on the way out the door. Steve made a note to thank Tony for the unintended holiday when Bucky was well again. He sighed as he turned the page and pressed a light kiss to Bucky’s messy hair.

 

Then in barged a frantic, disheveled, and wild eyed Tony. He kicked open the door, Bruce calling from the hall. Bucky started, Steve dropped the book and Tony let out a whoop of triumph.

 

“It’s done!” He cried. His hair was unwashed, sticking out every-which way. His eyes were bloodshot and wide, hands shaking from too much booze, too much coffee and not nearly enough sleep. His white undershirt was stained, his trousers covered in singe marks and grime, a pair of welding goggles hanging around his neck.

He looked like hell, and that was being polite about it.

 

“What’s done?” Steve asked, carefully getting off the bed and adjusting Bucky as best he could. “Jesus, you look like shit.”

 

“Thank you,” Tony replied, breathless. He started to pace. “It’s done, I did it, it works, you should be praising me, I’m a goddamn miracle worker!”

 

“Oh he’s a keeper,” Bucky teased.

 

“Someone call the president, I want a medal! No! No don’t do that, scratch that, he’ll want the designs and he can’t have them.” Tony rambled as he paced.

 

“He’s lost it.”

 

“Tony,” Steve said again. “What are you talking about?”

 

“I’m a fucking genius that’s what I’m talking about!” he exclaimed.

 

“Bare with him, he does this,” Bruce chuckled from the doorway.

 

“Bruce!” Tony shouted with a crazed smile. He grabbed the doctor’s face and pulled him in for a bruising kiss, Steve and Bucky forgotten. “I did it Bruce, I did it!”Tony giggled before kissing him again and again. “I did it!”

 

“What did you do, Tony?” Bruce asked gently, trying to fix Tony’s hair and shirt.

 

“Yes do tell,” Bucky drawled, rubbing at his eyes with his remaining hand.

 

Tony turned the crazed smile to him. “I’ve got a present for you champ.”

 

“What?” Bucky and Steve said in unison. Even Bruce frowned as Tony hurried out of the room and returned with a large gift box, a red bow perched atop.

 

“Right, so I was fiddling with a design for a new artillery gun, one that’s smaller, that can move easier, and can be mounted to a truck.” Tony carefully set the box at Bucky’s feet, Steve helping him to sit up. “And I realized it sort of looked like a bone joint, the one at your elbow and shoulder. And then it struck me, why not try and replicate it in metal?”

 

“A joint?” Steve tried to clarify, but Tony ignored him.

 

“Took fucking ages, let me tell you, and I’m not a hundred percent sure the damn thing will even work right. But Baby Bird said that snipers can’t right snipe without two arms and I don’t want Steve losing his best man so-”

 

With a flourish, he undid the bow, threw off the lid and pulled out a- Well Steve didn’t know what to call it. It was a mass of intricate metal, wound together in ornate beautiful designs or Iron and Bronze. It must have weighed less than Steve expected because Tony lifted it from the tissue paper with ease.

 

“Tony is that-” Bruce started to ask, Clint behind him peering over his shoulder.

 

“Your new arm.” Tony stated, presenting it to Bucky with a smile of victory.

 

It was beautiful, an assembly of clockwork under carved bronze casing, the gears peeking out from under the twisting whimsical designs. The elbow was the same ball-baring like joint Steve had seen in the war on Gatling guns, but smaller, sleeker. Each finger was cast carefully in cut bits of brass, the knuckles able to curl into a fist with ease.

Steve and Bucky could do nothing but stare. Bruce gaped from the doorway, Tony basked in the shock, until Clint finally spoke up.

 

“And how in the hell does it work?” he asked.

 

Tony looked like a child on Christmas morning. “I’m glad you asked. Sit him up for me Steve.”

 

Steve moved Bucky into a sitting position and sat behind him to hold him up “This is insane Tony.”

 

“And how,” Tony said, bringing the arm to Bucky’s side. “Now hold still, Barnes, this shouldn’t hurt a bit.”

 

Bucky winced when the padded shoulder cavity pressed against the stump of his left arm, but he stayed still. Steve pressed light kisses on his neck to calm him as Tony slid the shoulder brace over it, hooking the arm in place and drawing the straps around Bucky’s chest.

 

“Does it do anything besides look pretty?” Bucky asked. “Not like I can move it like I used to.”

 

“Not yet anyway,” Tony muttered before pulling back. “You ever have a windup toy as a kid?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Same basic principle.” He reached into the box and pulled out a chain, a large key dangling at the end. “Guard this with your life, seeing as I’m not sure if I can make another.” he sat down on the bed, Bruce and Clint moving closer to see.

 

Tony, when he was sure Bucky was watching carefully, brought the key to the slot in his wrist, right where his pulse would have been, and gave it several turns, the gears sputtering to life.

“A few good turns will keep it running for half an hour. This here,” Tony indicated a dial at the wrist, “controls the fingers. Just give it a twist and-” he twisted it slowly, the fingers curling into a tight fist before relaxing before their eyes.

As they gaped, Tony continued. “And this does the same for the elbow,” he indicated the knob and gave it a twist, the arm flexing as if natural muscle lined the metal bones under the casing. “This does the same for the shoulder.” he tugged at a small chain, the arm swinging upward, Steve nearly avoiding a smack to the face. “Or this one here.” The shoulder joint swung forward, the elbow at ninety degrees, saluting Tony.

 

Bucky laughed, a weak, breathless sound. “You...”

 

“Good men shouldn’t have to suffer for the mistakes of others,” Tony said gently, patting Bucky’s knee and placing the key in his hand. Steve didn’t know what to say. What do you say to someone who’s just saved your best friend’s life? Who gave you everything in one not-so-small gesture?

 

“Now, it’s just a prototype. If I don’t get shot I’ll be making another one, a better one, and we’ll see what happens from there.” Tony smiled, the kind Steve hadn’t seen on his face before. It was earnest, unyielded, even innocent, which was a strange shade on a man like Tony. Steve couldn’t help but smile in return, chest tight as he watched Bucky fiddle with the dials and switches. He reached for Tony’s clammy hand and gripped it tight. He had no words, but the way Tony squeezed back settled him. He didn’t need the words, Tony knew.

 

Tony was dragged away by Bruce not long after, Bruce telling him to sleep, Tony complaining and whining all the way. Clint stood by the door, silent, until Bucky told him he could come closer. Clint did so, timidly, as Bucky showed him the arm, excited like a small child with their new favorite toy. When Bruce returned, it was with orders for Bucky to rest and take more morphine. Bucky whined, even as he yawned, but he conceded so long as Bruce left the arm attached. Seeing as he didn’t know how to remove it, Bruce agreed. Steve helped him put Bucky to bed, administer the morphine and followed the doctor out of the room.

 

“You and your boy are really fucking special,” Bruce said as they made their way to the kitchen. “I hope you know that.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Bruce stopped at the top of the stairs and laughed. “Steve, Tony makes weapons. Lots of weapons. It’s always come naturally to him. He’ll make guns and sell them for various prices, information, booze, hookers, clams, you name it. But something like that? He never makes things like that unless he’s promised a prize, something worth an unfathomable amount of money.”

 

“But I didn’t-”

 

“Exactly,” Bruce said, disbelief coating his voice. “Steve, he only does that for Clint and I. Sometimes Pepper. He built her a typewriter last Christmas. But that, that takes the cake.” Bruce smiled and shook his head. “Just... Give him a chance, ok Steve? Take care of him.”

 

He left Steve standing on the stairs confused, uneasy, and awestruck. He glanced back at Bucky’s room, Bucky who would now still be his best man, and sighed. He was in trouble.

 

One last glance around the corridor and Steve moved to the far end of the hall, to the last door, Tony’s room. He knocked lightly and smiled and the muffled groan in reply. “Tony?”

 

The drapes were drawn, forcing out the early afternoon sun. Tony was curled up under the covers, hugging a pillow to his chest. Steve stepped into the room and watched him a moment, amused at how vulnerable the scariest man in New York could be.

 

“Whaddaya want?” Tony muttered, stretching like a cat as Steve came to sit on the edge of his bed. “Brucie said sleep, I’m sleeping.”

 

Steve chuckled. “I know. I know, sorry for waking you.”

 

Tony hummed and scooted closer to him. “You gonna join me or just gonna sit there like a flat tire?”

 

“Not this time Tony.” Steve trailed light fingers through Tony’s messy hair. Tony’s eyes closed as he leaned into the touch. “You aren’t what I expected.”

 

“How so?”

 

“I’ll write you a book of reasons.”

 

His smile was cheeky and tired. “It’d be a bestseller I bet.”

 

Steve’s fingers tightened in Tony’s hair and pulled him gently upwards, his lips pressing against Tony’s smile. Tony went limp, a soft whine slipping from him as he met Steve in the kiss, leaving him to control everything.

 

“Thank you,” Steve whispered when he pulled away. “You saved us, Tony. Thank you.”

 

Another kiss before Tony could reply, drawn out, deeper, Tony’s hand tugging at the front of Steve’s shirt.

 

Oh yes, he was definitely in trouble.

 

Steve had taken Bruce’s advice and retreated to his room for a few hours of rest, having not slept much the past few days, knowing Bucky was next door. He slept better those few short hours, knowing things were slowly starting to mend. Bruce had poked his head in to check on him at one point, leaving a pot of tea for when he woke, to help with any aches or pains he had.

Sunset was quickly approaching as Steve lounged in bed, the room growing dark around him. He was content, probably could have stayed there the rest of the week. The bed was more comfortable than the one he had at home, the blanket’s warmer. It was a little annoying how nice Tony’s things were and how much Steve was growing to like them. He’d have to ask Tony for some names, who to buy this kind of stuff from, since Bucky at least deserved better.

“Rogers? You awake soldier?” Tony’s voice called from the other side of the door.

“No,” Steve replied, pulling the blankets over his head.

He heard the door open and Tony’s quick footsteps as he crossed the room, climbing onto Steve’s bed and sitting across his hips. “Morning sunshine,” he greeted with a smile.

Steve lowered the blankets and shot him a look. “It’s sundown, Tony.”

“Tomatoes, Tomahtoes.” Tony’s eyes were bright. It’d only been a few hours, but apparently that was all he needed to be running on all six cylinders again.

“Why are you sitting on me?”

“I like the view.” He did a little sashay with his hips, Steve arching up against him almost involuntarily. “You don’t seem to mind it either.”

“What do you want?” Steve asked, ignoring the pleasant heat that shot down his spine as Tony kept rolling his hips.

“No fun, Grundy.”

“A Boss doesn’t pout.” Tony proceeded to stick his bottom lip out further. “Still pouting.”

“Well I’m not here as a boss, I’m here as a friend who wants to celebrate my crowning achievement.” Tony leaned down with a Cheshire smile on his lips. “Or have you already forgotten about my miracle?”

Steve closed his eyes as Tony kissed him, deep, his teeth biting at Steve’s lower lip, tongue forcing its way into his mouth. Tony’s hands gripped the pillow under his head as he kissed him, rolling his hips ever so slightly to tease Steve into reacting. He wanted to, he wanted to roll them over and take Tony, make him his, but part of him, the sensible part, the part that would love Bucky till his dying day, reminded him it was a horrible, horrible idea.

“Tony,” he said when they broke for air, his hands coming to hold Tony’s hips to still him. “I’m not fucking you with Bucky sleeping next door.”

The change was instant. Tony froze over him, his face going blank, the glimmer in his eyes dimming as he sat up quickly. “Right. Barnes. Sorry. Crossed the line there huh?” He was climbing off the bed before Steve could say anything, fixing his shirt and trousers to try and make himself more presentable, though Steve could clearly see his hard on in the tight fitting trousers. He ignored it and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

“You wanted to celebrate?” he asked.

Tony gave a curt nod. “Yeah. There’s a boxing match tonight, the championship. My boy is fighting. Thought you’d enjoy it. There’s dinner before and drinks after the fight.”

“Anyone else going?”

“Bruce doesn’t like the fighting and Clint gets jumpy around crowds. Some of the other boys might be there but not specifically with us.” He looked away. “Just us, but I get it if you’d rather not. I’m not really behaving myself I-”

“Sounds good, Tony.” Steve stretched and got up, Tony staring at him. “When do we leave and do I have to dress up?”

A hint of a smile played on Tony’s lips at his answer. “We leave in an hour. You can wear the suit you wore when we met. See you out front in a bit.”

He vanished, leaving Steve confused, flustered, and aroused. Damn it all to hell, the man was going to be the death of him at this rate.

He bathed, dressed, made himself presentable, well aware that Tony would probably outshine him, but that would be alright, Tony seemed like the kind of fella to outshine everyone on purpose. He dug through the wardrobe, surprised to find some old clothes there, a nice vest that, though a bit snug, fit him pretty well. There was a well kept fedora sitting on the shelf as well, which he borrowed. His cap wouldn’t suit the occasion. Tony had probably thrown together some fancy dinner with the high society folks, a setting Steve certainly didn’t belong in. When he deemed himself worthy, all primped and fixed up, he let out a sigh and went to say goodbye to Bucky.

He found him sleeping, as expected, the morphine still flowing through his system. Steve sat down on the edge of the bed and ran a light finger over the metal arm. Bucky wouldn’t be angry with him if he took Tony to bed, he knew he wouldn’t. He just wished Bucky were well enough to give him the needed shove out the door. Bucky deserved better anyway, someone who could properly take care of him, who could protect him, give him everything his heart desired. Steve had never really known why Bucky had stuck with him, romantically anyway. He could have had any Dame, all he needed to do was smile. And they’d been to the clubs, he knew the boys would line up for him willingly. But he had settled for Steve. Maybe that was why it was so hard for him to chase after someone else, Bucky had always come back to him in the end.

Steve sighed and checked his watch, the hour nearly passed. He leaned in to kiss Bucky’s forehead, something catching his eye as he pulled back. A note, in Bucky’s scrawled writing, sat on the bedside table with a small bottle of oil.

_Stevie,_

_Have a good time with Stark. And so help me if you don’t take advantage of this, I’ll beat you. Enjoy yourself, be happy, have fun, get laid. He suits you. And if nothing else, do it for me. I’m gonna be fine and so are you. Live a little, grundy._

_Bucky_

Steve laughed. Even while unconscious, Bucky was able to kick him in the ass. He planted another kiss on Bucky’s brow, promised to enjoy himself, that he loved him, and he’d see him in the morning. Then he went to join Tony, the bottle of oil tucked safely in his pocket.

           

Tony’s boy was Thor Odinson, and he wasn’t so much a boy as he was a god. He stood almost a head taller than Steve, fifty pounds heavier at least, nothing but pure, primal muscle. He was intimidating, the fact any man was crazy enough to fight him in the first place baffled Steve, since it seemed clear who would be the victor. It wasn’t often Steve had to look up at people and it scared him a little when he did.

Tony had swept into the grand hall of the hotel like he owned the place, he probably did when Steve thought about it, and strode right up to the behemoth with a cry of greeting. Thor turned to him, massive compared to Tony’s smaller stature and beamed, sweeping him off his feet into a bone crushing hug as Steve just stared. Of course Tony’s fighter would be a monster of a man, of course he’d be. Steve shouldn’t have been surprised, but when Thor turned to him with the same beaming smile and shook his hand with enough force to sprain his wrist, Steve did a double take.

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you sir,” Thor boomed. “Tony has told me of you and your exploits.”

 

“Has he?” Steve shot Tony a startled look, but Tony just blew it off.

 

“You’ll have to excuse him, Thor, he’s a bit out of his element,” he said, patting Thor on the arm. “You ready to dazzle the crowd big guy?”

 

“Now that you are here, sir, I’ll knock them off their feet.” Thor said in earnest and Tony gave him the same fond smile he gave Clint and Bruce. Thor was special to him, clearly, someone Tony would protect with everything he had. Steve wasn’t sure what to make of it, but Tony was certainly not the man he’d expected. The man he’d expected didn’t give a rat’s ass about people like Thor and Steve was glad he’d been more or less wrong.

            Thor was larger than life in everything he did. He ate more than the average man, spoke louder, waved his hands when he spoke, and had a smile that lit up the room. The funny thing was, he was tender, in every touch and movement he was careful and polite and yielding to those around him. The dainty twig of a dame strung up on his arm, a nurse by the name of Jane as Steve was told, for example. She looked as if Thor could have snapped her in half over his knee. But he treated her so carefully and sweetly, light kisses on her cheek and coiffed hair, a hand pressed against her lower back, allowing her to lead the way. It was heartwarming, to see a man of his size with someone so small. It made Steve smile.

As dinner concluded and Thor was ushered off  to the lockers to get ready for his match, Steve moved to Tony’s side, hand slipping to the small of the man’s back. He felt Tony stiffen before a much more demure smile was turned his way.

 

“Doing alright there Sheik?” he asked, sipping champagne like a broad.

 

“Don’t know a damn soul here other than you, but Thor’s an amiable fellow,” Steve mused grabbing a glass of champagne for himself from a passing waiter.

 

“Ha, amiable. Just you wait, he’s a mean sonnovabitch when he gets those gloves on.” Tony twisted away from him. “Shall we?”

 

Steve frowned, but followed. “You feeling alright?” He’d hoped Tony’s high from earlier would have lasted a bit longer and that the night might have been a bit more, for lack of a better word, intimate and heated. But Tony just nodded with that same demure smile and lead the way from the dining room of the hotel to the ballroom where the fight was being held.

 

 

It’s strange when you don’t notice something until its missing. Steve hadn’t realized how often Tony’s hands had been on him the first night they’d gone out, until they went to see Thor pummel his opponent and Tony never laid a finger on him. Before, his hand had rested on Steve’s lower back, his knee, his elbow, his bicep, his shoulder, somewhere, anywhere and it had been warm and comforting and consoling all at once. Then comes the fight and Tony acts like ice, distant, hands folded in his lap.  
            Steve didn’t care, he shouldn’t have cared, he didn’t even like Tony, or so he tried to remind himself. He needed to get home to Bucky, he didn’t need Tony feeling him up and waking up the next morning not knowing what had happened. But he missed it. He felt cold and cut off, surrounded by men and women he didn’t know and half of whom probably wanted him dead and the other half were on his “People to Bump” list.  
  
            So when Thor had won and the other man was carted off, nose spilling blood like a fountain, and Thor had reached over the ring and dragged Tony up with him, perching him on his shoulder as if Tony, not Thor, had won the fight, and they had cheered and awards were given, and they were all herded to the Cognac Club, one of Tony’s swankier joints for a party, Steve wasn’t sure why he felt so lost. He was debating leaving, going back to the Stark house to make sure Bucky hadn’t keeled over in his sleep, but that was rude and his mother had taught him better than that. And Tony was being odd, avoiding him almost. After the display earlier, Steve had expected something very different. He was almost, dare he say it, disappointed at Tony’s behavior.   
  
            Steve took a sip of the fruity drink in his hand. It was a bit too sweet for his liking, but the bite of vodka was still there. Thor was surrounded by admirers, as any victor should and would be. Tony was on the dance floor with some nameless dame who had downed one too many martinis and was getting, for lack of a better word, sloppy. She hung over him, dress disheveled, eyes glassy, face flushed. Tony wasn’t much better, his cheeks burning, eyes shut in laughter, almost empty glass dangling from his fingers. Steve finished his drink and ordered another.   
  
            He was not drunk enough for this.  
  
            At some point, he got to his feet, tired of seeing Tony tripping over himself, tired of the girls, yes girls as in plural which is fine and dandy when you aren’t a fish about to pass out and they’ve got their hands everywhere they shouldn’t be.  
  
            “Hey, Tony,” He called, forcing his way onto the floor. “C’mon let’s get some air, yeah?”  
  
            “Air? There’s air in here, Doofus.” Tony laughed, slinging his arm around girl number who-was-keeping-track. “Dance with us. Here dance with, uh, Maybel, let’s call her Maybel.”  
  
            Steve took Tony’s arm, shot the girl a look to scram, and steered Tony to the back entrance.  
  
            “Have I told you I like strong men? Strong men are nice. You’re strong,” Tony rambled as they slid into the back hall, hidden by the telephone booth that was acquiring dust.  
  
            “You need some air,” Steve repeated. “You shouldn’t be drinking so much you’ll pass out and I am not carrying you home.”  
  
            “What, after Brucie and I save your boyo you won’t carry me home?” Tony rolled his eyes. “What a thank you, gosh I’m stunned.” Away from the crowd, the music, the booze, and the girls, Tony’s posture changed. He seemed much more himself, pulled together, less sloppy, face bright. “And please, I haven’t had that much to drink look.” He stood on one foot for a few moments, perfectly balanced, then proceeded to try a pirouette in the cramped space, only to slam his knee into the phone. “Fuck!”  
  
            “The grace of a swan,” Steve hummed, reaching down to touch the wounded knee and make sure it wasn’t bleeding. Tony pulled away. “What?”  
  
            “I’m surprised you haven’t hit me yet.” Ah finally; a little bit of booze in his system and the man had no secrets.   
  
            Steve frowned. “There’s a few good reasons why I would, but which are you thinking?”  
  
            “Well that wasn’t really my best morning after to be honest,” Tony said with a weak chuckle. His body was tense, his nerves acting up.   
  
            “I would hope not.”  
  
            “I can give great morning afters. Well I don’t think I ever have, they’re usually gone by morning, like you were. But I bet you I could.” Tony giggled. “I’d probably fuck it up though. And this morning was plain rude. I’d say my mama taught me better but she’s dead.”  
  
            “What’s the matter with you, huh? You been acting shifty all night.” Steve carefully ran his fingers over Tony’s knee to check for blood before standing straight, towering over him. “You got a problem?”  
  
            “No, no, no problem, yeah I got a problem,” Tony rambled. “My problem is big and blonde and pretty and fucking messing up everything cause he won’t give me a straight answer.”  
  
            Steve stared at him. “I’m your problem?”  
  
            “You’re my problem.” Tony nodded like he wasn’t sure.   
  
            “Then why not say so?”  
  
            “Problem? No you’re not my problem. I’m drunk I don’t know what I’m saying.” Tony gave a weak laugh and covered his face. “Why am I talking? Hey punch my teeth in maybe then I’ll can it.”  
  
            “Why am I your problem?” Steve asked.  
  
            A group of girls hurried past their secluded hall, giggling and laughing as they dashed out into the night. Tony tried to use it as a distraction, trying to squirm his way around Steve. With a roll of his eyes, Steve gripped the front of Tony’s coat, fingers digging into the fine lapel, and dragged him back, pinning him to the wall with ease.  
  
            “Answer me.” Steve held him here, his body boxing him in.  
  
            “You shouldn’t be manhandling me, boy.”  
  
            “Boy?” Steve hissed. “I’m bigger than you Stark. Stronger too.” he felt Tony shiver under his hold, his breath catching in his chest. “I’m holding you here with one fucking hand and I bet you can’t move. You may think you’ve got everyone running scared, but to me you’re just as small as everyone else.”  
  
            “This is why you’re my problem,” Tony whined. “This, right here, is reason for me to tear open your stomach cavity and tap dance on your innards. But god I don’t want to, I really don’t want to. You are so goddamn confusing. You hate me, you like me, you want nothing to with me, you come running to my house for help, you fuck me and you haven’t tried to off me for it. You’re an enemy, my enemy and I have to keep you safe-”  
  
            Steve’s grip tightened, his knuckles pressing into Tony’s throat. “I am not your pet, Stark. My safety is none of your concern.”  
  
            “Yes it is.”  
  
            “No, not when I’m able to pin the scariest man in New York to a wall and reduce him to whines and whimpers. When that happens, I don’t need your protection. I should have beaten the shit out of you for the stunt you pulled the other night.”  
  
            “Please do, please. Maybe this time I’ll learn my lesson.”  
  
            His grip loosened ever so slightly and Steve eased the edge on his voice. “But you saved James, gave him a new arm, made sure he’d be ok.” He listened as Tony sucked in a sharp breath. “You did it without me asking and so far without trying to strike a bargain.” He leaned in closer, high on the way Tony shivered under him. “And for that, I’ll behave and show you a good time.”  
  
            He’d never been so glad to be so sober in his life. He’d also never been so balled up before, so thrown off by someone. If he were drunk he probably would have chickened out, they were in public after all and all they needed was one drunk dance hall tramp to stumble in on them hidden in the corner. But Steve shed his coat, tossing it aside as he pressed close to Tony, his fist still gripping the front of the fine silk coat.

“You like this huh?” Steve hissed, nipping at Tony’s ear. “Playing games until your catch gets fed up and just takes from you? You like this, that I’m just pinning you here with a hand and nothing else?”

 

Tony let out a long drawn out whine and closed his eyes, head dropping back against the wall. “You’re the devil, Rogers.”

 

“Oh no, no, the devil’s worse, Tony.” He moved from Tony’s ear, biting gently down his jaw to his neck before sucking on his pulse, drawing a low moan, one Tony tried to cover with his hand. “See the devil would get you all riled up like this, all begging and wanting, and then he’d just-” He let him go, stepped back, leaving Tony slumped against the phone booth. “leave.”

 If he left now Tony would likely kill him in his sleep with his own bare hands. But the man before him was no longer the most feared man in New York, the ruthless Man of Iron, the Italian Devil. He was a boy, weak at the knees, red in the face, breathing labored as if he’d run from the ferry terminal to Queens. His hand pressed over the hard on in his trousers, trying to alleviate some of the pressure and Steve couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride at the thought that he’d done this.

Steve froze as more dames scurried past with high pitched giggles. Tony covered his mouth and closed his eyes, pulling his hand away from his tented trousers to suppress the whimper. Oh he was easy, so very easy, and Steve felt the heat pooling in his stomach. A predatory grin slid across his face and when the door slammed shut once more he had Tony against the wall, hands scrambling to pull off his jacket, kissing him for all he was worth, the taste of whiskey and vodka and gin sharp and biting on Tony’s tongue. Tony clung to him, his jacket discarded with Steve’s, his fingers fumbling with the buttons on Steve’s shirt, lips nipping and biting, desperate and hungry.

“Who’d have thought Mister Tony Stark was such a whore?” Steve said, voice low and heavy, his accent thick on his tongue. Tony whined, bringing a hand to cover his mouth again, his hips canting upwards to roll against Steve in a futile attempt, as Steve’s hand pinned him effortlessly to the brick wall.  He pulled Tony’s hand away so he could kiss him again, harsh and unrelenting, no romance in it whatsoever. And Tony responded like it was his drug, arching up into Steve as much as he could, meeting every touch, drag and pull.

“Ain’t no shame in it,” Tony gasped out. “No shame at all.”

“So if I were just to refer to you as my whore from here on out, you’d smile and carry on with business?” Steve grabbed both of Tony’s hands and pinned them over his head. “Or would you get all flustered and red faced and start squirming like right now?”

Tony bit down on Steve’s lip, the pain sharp. “I don’t play Whore for just anyone smartass. Make it worth my time and we’ll see.”

Steve pulled back enough to give Tony an unamused look. It made Tony’s confident smirk fall, shock and worry that Steve would up and leave taking its place. Steve let go of Tony’s wrists and stepped back, rolling up his sleeves and glancing around to make sure they were alone. “Trousers down and face the wall.”

“Excuse you?”

“You damn well heard me,” Steve was smug as he fetched his coat and dug through the pockets. “C’mon if you want me to make you my whore you best start acting like one. I can fuck you into next Sunday. Or I can leave you here, alone, hard as hell.”

And that did it. Tony groaned low in his throat and starts pulling at his belt, Steve fishing the bottle out of the pocket of his coat. “You came prepared and everything you-”

Steve kissed him, half because Tony’s swollen lips looked like candy and half just to shut him up. He finished getting Tony’s trousers open, the bottle of oil now resting in his pocket as his other hand worked down Tony’s back to palm his ass. When he pulled back, Tony was reduced to whines and whimpers, his fingers grabbing at Steve’s shirt. It made Steve pause, how desperate for contact Tony was how needy. He tugged down the trousers and kissed Tony slowly, his hand cupping Tony’s scruffy cheek. He smiled into it when Tony melted against him, hands holding tightly to Steve’s upper arms.

“Turn around for me, babe,” he whispered, voices hurrying past and the door swinging open and closed again. “Be quick or we’ll get caught.”

Surprisingly obedient, Tony did as he was asked, pressing his chest against the cold rough brick, hands splayed out by his head. Steve took a moment to admire the scene, the spread of Tony’s legs, the arch of his back, the way he trembled from the cold air and the aching of his cock.

“S-Steve please,” Tony choked out, glancing at him over his shoulder. “I can’t…”

“Can’t what?”

A breathy whine was his only response, Tony closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the wall. Steve took mercy on him, though he made a mental note to toy with him a bit more later. Now they didn’t have time, what with the party a room away and the door swinging open and closed as more drunks and harlots stumbled into the night. He popped open the bottle and slicked his fingers, Tony’s head lifting at the slick sounds of it. He stifled a moan when Steve pressed up against him, warm, slippery fingers spreading his legs further and teasing his hole.

One of their companions from dinner passed by their hiding place his booming voice and the giggles of a girl startling them, Steve freezing, Tony holding his breath. The moment the door swung shut with a bang and Tony let out his breath, Steve slid the first two fingers into him. His hand clamped over Tony’s mouth as a broken shout tried to escape him.

“Quiet or they find us,” Steve hissed, driving the fingers deeper, Tony’s teeth nipping at his palm. Tony’s whimpers and moans met Steve’s calloused hand as he worked him open, two slick fingers becoming three, the thrusts becoming deeper and more deliberate, pressing into just the right spot to make Tony’s knees wobble and a particularly loud moan to slip past Steve’s fingers.

“Easy, baby, easy.” The third finger was short lived. Steve pulled out and turned Tony to face him, huddling him up against the wall so they were completely hidden behind the phone booth, another group of party goers slipping out the door. Tony grabbed the bottle of oil from him and took it upon himself to pull out and slick Steve’s cock, Steve bracing himself against the wall and biting his lip to keep himself quiet. Tony’s fingers were quickly and delicious, just the right amount of pressure in his grip to make it good but nowhere near enough to get him off.

When the door banged shut again, Steve hooked his hands under Tony’s thighs and hoisted him up, pinning him against the side of the phone booth.

“God I love how strong you are,” Tony gasped, slinging his arms around Steve’s broad shoulders.

“Part of the charm now pipe down.” Steve hissed, glancing around the phone booth one last time to check they were alone. Then he kissed Tony, bruising and hard as he slid into him, Tony’s cry silenced by the kiss. He set a rough pace, holding Tony up with one arm, bracing himself against the phone booth with the other. It was maddening, the tightness, the heat, the way Tony rolled his hips to meet him half way, the arch of his back the whimpering noises he made.

“S-Steve please c’mon fuck me… harder c’mon,” He begged, yes begged, a fact Steve would be proud of until the day he died.

Steve bit at Tony’s neck, sure there’d be nice dark marks the next morning.  “Such a whiny little whore.” But he obliged as much as he could in their cramped position, picking up his pace and aiming for the spot that made Tony outright sob. He tightened around Steve, his body tensing as he got closer to his climax, fingers bruising on Steve’s shoulders. All it took was a few stroked from Steve’s hand as he came, eyes screwed shut, mouth open in shock and pleasure, body arching off the phone booth with a hushed, strangled sob of Steve’s name on his lips.

The rhythm of Steve’s thrusts became erratic, a low growl ripped from his chest as Tony clenched around him and whined for more, even though he was sensitive and spent. He fucked him without kindness or gentle coos of love, sure that Tony would be sore when he awoke the next morning and a wave of pride swept through him, knowing that everyone who crossed Tony would see the bites on his neck and the limp in his gait. His knees almost gave out when he finally game, spilling into Tony, filling him, teeth biting into the meat of Tony’s neck and sucking a mark sure to last a week at least. It took him a minute to gather himself, Tony shaking against him. He pulled out and set Tony back on his feet, his arms still around Steve’s neck, holding him up. Steve sighed and kissed the bruise blooming on Tony’s tanned skin, nuzzling his neck with a smile.

“If that’s just the first round, I’m most definitely your whore,” Tony muttered.

And it would only be the first round. When they managed to tidy up and clean themselves and make their debauched appearances as proper and polite as possible, Tony went to find Thor, Steve waiting by the door with their coats. They wouldn’t remember the silent and tense ride home in the car, fingers entwined under their coats that sat piled between them. They would, however, remember the next hours spent in Tony’s large bed, wrapped into each other, drinking in each other’s moans and hushed desires. It was bliss, pure bliss and Steve, well, a part of him didn’t want the night to end. He wanted to have Tony at his mercy for as long as possible, have the man begging him, kissing him, giving him everything and more whenever Steve asked for it. And come morning, when they awoke from their sex and booze induced stupor, Steve wasn’t sure he’d still be able to kiss Tony without a fist to the jaw or a bullet in his temple. But he could hope. And as he wrapped the blankets around them, holding Tony close, that’s all he did. 


	7. Little Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby Bird can't sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was posted a while ago on my tumblr, and I was alerted to it not being here, so I'm posting it to tide everyone over until chapter 8 is finished, which may not be for a while.

After Tony had herded Steve from the house, followed by a few other boys, off to see Odinson win the title fight, Bruce retired to his rooms, hoping at last for a bit of peaceful sleep. He checked on his patient, Barnes tucked safely in bed and out like a light, asked Jarvis to alert him should there be any sort of emergency, but otherwise to leave him be, and locked himself away in his room. He drew the curtains, stripped from his disheveled clothes and crawled into bed, glad to finally find some peace.

Of course an hour later Bruce was awoken by a series of frustrated mumbles and shuffling steps. Peace seemed to be as rare a commodity as life in this household, or better, as rare as sobriety. He lifted himself up on his elbows to see Clint pacing at the foot of the bed, the lock picked, his clothes save for his undergarments piled in a messy heap by the armoire.

"What’s the matter?" Bruce asked gently. Clint jumped and stared at him like he had seen a ghost.

"Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you," he mumbled, looking away. 

"What’s wrong?" Bruce asked again. Because the last time Clint had picked the lock on his door Tony had come home bleeding and concussed.

Clint did one more lap of the carpet that lay at the foot of the bed before he let out a frustrated growl, swearing and stomping his foot. Then he climbed onto the bed and flopped down next to Bruce, his face buried in the sheets.

"That’s hardly an answer."

More muffled grumbling and Bruce settled back down with an amused sigh, rolling to his side, facing away from the blonde. “Fine, when you want to tell me I’ll be here trying to sleep for the first time in a week."

That seems to get Clint’s attention. He sits up on his knees and glares at him, Bruce glancing up at him out of the corner of his eye. He can see the little pout Clint does when he’s irritated but Bruce isn’t the cause of it. It makes him look like a child, much younger than he actually is. Although being 21 doesn’t really mean he isn’t still a child in his own way. He the youngest of the brood, at least in the higher ranks, and still had plenty of spots, which had initially caused problems, but one look from Tony and everyone had shut their mugs about it. And to be honest, once you’ve got a Tommy gun in your hand, age didn’t really factor into the equation.

Bruce yelped when Clint’s hand closed around his upper arm and forced him to roll over onto his back, the boy straddling his hips and holding him down against the bed. His face was dark, pupils blown, nostrils flaring as he took deep, ragged breaths. Bruce swallowed thickly and relaxed into the bed.

"Who’s upset you now?" he asked gently.

Clint just glared at him.

"I can’t help if you won’t talk to me."

More immature glaring. The next time he opened his mouth Clint’s hand came to cover it, effectively shutting him up.

"I never said you could talk," he said in low tones, slowly moving his hand from Bruce’s mouth and returning it to the pillow beside his dark curls. Bruce simply nodded.

It was hardly the first time this had happened. In fact it was a pretty common occurrence for them. Clint would get upset, be thrown out of his depths, made uncomfortable by some nameless bimbo and the only answer to it was to regain his control in the easiest manner he knew. Which meant finding Bruce is pinning him to the closest flat surface until he felt better. Sometimes it meant sex, however Clint wanted it, and sometimes it just meant holding Bruce until his pulse settled and he could breath easier. It all depended on the meathead who had put him off.

"Guess how many men the boss sent on this job?" Clint asked. He sat back on Bruce’s hips and reached for the bedside table, rummaging in the drawer. “He sent every goddamned sonnovabitch he’s got who ain’t dead or dying out looking for the torpedoes who shot Barnes. Every. Single. Goddamned. One." He pulled a pair of thick leather cuffs from the drawer and sat back. “Except for one."

He took Bruce’s wrists and cuffed them to the headboard like it was everyday business, no fuss or argument from Bruce, no care in making sure that the cuffs weren’t too tight or that anyone who walked in would probably be utterly displeased with the whole thing. “And guess who that singular sonnovabitch was that the boss told to stay home?"

Bruce stared up at him.

"You can talk, yah gumbie."

"You?" Bruce replied in a meek voice.

Clint’s scowl deepened. “Me."

Okay, that would be reason for all this. Clint was, and knew he was, Tony best man. Clint could most likely kill someone with a ballet slipper, or a soggy newspaper, or hell even a feather. He was the best, had worked to be the best, and made Tony proud by doing so. Being left out of the manhunt was like being scolded and placed in the corner with a dunce cap Bruce made to touch him, to comfort him, but the cuffs around his wrists held fast, so he lay there gazing up at Clint in what he hoped resembled sympathy. Clint was fuming in silence.

"You can still talk," he added a moment later with an exasperated sigh.

"Did you ask Tony if you could go?" Bruce asked.

"Yes."

"And he said no?"

"Yes," Clint growled, fists clutching at his thighs in irritation.

"Did he tell you why he said no?"

"No."

"Then maybe he just wants you safe," Bruce soothed. “Steve’s best man got hurt, he doesn’t want that happening to you too."

"That’s a damned stupid reason and you know it, Doc," Clint snapped at him. 

"He’s worried, Baby Bird."

"Shut up."

"You know he-"

Clint leaned in close and covered Bruce’s mouth. “I said shut it." He sat back, Bruce biting his lip to keep himself from talking, and ran his hands down Bruce’s bare chest. “He told me to stay because he doesn’t think I’m ready for a man hunt. That’s it, ain’t it? He thinks I’m too much of a goddamned pup to go out in broad daylight and grab the man responsible. Probably thinks I’ll grab the wrong guy. That’s it ain’t it? He don’t give two shits if my fanny is safe, its all about impressing this new clown of his."

As he spoke his voice grew harsher, angrier, his eyes dark and feral. He moved down Bruce’s body and stripped him of his pajama trousers, tossing them to the side. “He thinks I’ll fuck it up, that’s what he thinks. Thinks we aren’t good enough for this dog he’s brought home."

"Clint that’s not-"

Bruce hissed when Clint bit down hard at the soft skin of his stomach, sucking a dark bruise that would last a few days. “Quiet or I’ll find the crop." He threatened and Bruce shut his mouth.

"You’re thinking it too," Clint mused as he kissed his way across Bruce’s stomach, nuzzling the stripe of hair across his abs. “You’re worried that we’ve been replaced. I can see it, I’m not that dim. I know you’re scared he won’t want us anymore. And what if he doesn’t? What if this Rogers is gonna replace us?" He as nearly shouting, red in the face staring down at Bruce in fury. His hands shook against Bruce’s hips, teeth biting into his lip so hard Bruce was worried it might start to bleed. “What if we ain’t good enough anymore? Huh? What if the boss is done with us?" He looked like he might cry and that scared Bruce ore than anything. Clint screamed and shouted and swore, he hit things and broke things and broke people, but never, ever cried. Not since the night he first spoke.

The heavy silence hung over them until Bruce finally took a deep breath and spoke. “He’s not going to tire of us, Clint. I promise. You aren’t going anywhere." He tried to lift himself up a bit, but his arms made it difficult. “Come here."

Clint, still shaking with rage, leaned down and pressed his forehead against Bruce’s. “I’m not letting him get rid of you," Bruce said softly. “I’m the one who brought you home. I’m the one who’s going to make sure you stay. Tony can kiss my ass if he thinks he’s ever going to replace my little bird."

His reply was a harsh kiss, Bruce letting Clint take control, knowing that in time it would settle him and things would be made right again. He was going to give Tony a good thrashing when he got home, that was certain. Make sure he took Clint on his next big job too. He sighed as Clint kissed at his neck, sucking dark little marks across his skin, making sure they’d be seen above his collar and tie. 

"You don’t think he’s tired of us?" Clint asked, lips pressed against Bruce’s heart.

"No. Tony loves you, you know that."

"He said he wanted to keep Rogers."

"Tony says a lot of things."

Clint chuckled as he moved down to Bruce’s hip. “He does, don’t he?"

Bruce smiled as a bit of Clint’s usual demeanor slipped through, amid the biting and kisses and annoyed growls. He stifled a whimper as Clint slid past his cock and kissed his thighs instead, before climbing off the bed and going to lock the door.

"He and Rogers won’t be back for hours at least," he said absently, locking the heavy door and sliding out of his undergarments. He grinned at Bruce, devilish and just a little bit nasty. “Your all mine till then."

Bruce laughed. “I’m yours anyway, doofus."

"Don’t make me gag you, Doc."

"Not like that’s new."

Clint shook his head. “This is the part where you shut up."

With a giggle, Bruce did shut up, letting Clint climb back over him and kiss him till the air was sucked from his lungs and his lips were swollen, Clint’s fingers digging into his hips. He was obedient, following Clint’s orders to suck him off, letting him fuck his mouth, Clint’s hand fisted in his hair, holding him steady. He let Clint open him up with slick and practiced fingers, making sure not to beg or whine unless he was told to, his hands tugging at the cuffs to relieve a bit of pressure and distract him from his own aching erection. He let Clint have his way, fucking him into the mattress without an ounce of romance, Clint biting at his back, telling him exactly what he thought of the whorish moans slipping from his lips, his hand slapping at his hip when Bruce tried to thrust back against him. He let him control everything, let Clint own him, until he came, bringing Bruce to the edge with him, and the boy collapsed on the bed next to him, breathing heavy and shaking with aftershocks. 

"You gonna let me out of these?" Bruce asked, his voice hoarse.

Clint giggled. “Nah, you look good like that."

"Clint."

"Alright, alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist." Clint sat up to undo the cuffs.

"I don’t even have any knickers to twist thanks to you."

That got Clint to laugh, a real sputter of laughter, and Bruce smiled, his hands dropping to the bed as Clint removed the cuffs and returned them to the draw. Bruce pulled him against him and wrapped the covers around them, pressing kisses against Clint’s short, unruly blonde hair. 

"I’m gonna take care of you, alright?" he said softly as they began to doze, sated and warmed by their body heat and good sex. Bruce’s wrists were sore and red and there’s be marks there tomorrow but he didn’t mind in the slightest. Meant Clint would see them too and he knew Clint liked to see his handiwork, like to see his mark of ownership. It settled him when he got upset.

"Alright, Doc."

"Good boy."

Bruce finally got his few hours of restful sleep, Clint cradled tightly in his arms, face nuzzled into his chest. When it had been dark for a good while, the sound of the dogs barking roused Clint from his light sleep. They weren’t sounding an alarm, just barking at rabbits or something as equally unimportant. But Clint got up anyway, glancing out at the empty drive, Tony and Steve still not home from their evening capers. He dressed silently, placed Bruce’s dirty clothes in the hamper, pulled on his boots and and holsters, pistols tucked away safely, threw on his coat and grabbed his gloves and tugged his cap over his messy hair. He kissed Bruce goodbye, nothing more than a light peck on his forehead, the doctor not even shifting in his deep sleep. Then, silent as a shadow, Clint slipped out of the window and into the night. He’d be damned if this blonde army rat was going to replace him. He was Tony’s best man and that was how things were going to stay.

_

Tony was woken by chaos in the early hours of the morning, dawn only just beginning to stain the sky. He was tangled with Steve, splayed across him in contented slumber. Jarvis has let himself in without knocking and Tony woke to find him standing at the foot of the bed in unamused silence.

"Wassat Jarv?" Tony asked in a tired slur, his hair disheveled and sticky with sweat, the cause of it rumbling in his sleep and rolling over.

"Wassat" would be your men returning with the bounty you requested," Jarvis said in a short voice, clearly displeased with the amount of discord taking place in his house so early in the morning. 

Tony was out of bed like a shot, not bothering to dress. He grabbed for his dressing gown and his gun, Jarvis grabbing him by the collar to fix his hair so he looked at least a smidgen more respectable. “They have gathered in the foyer, sir, awaiting your orders. And please make sure you have them tidy up when they are done. I do not wish to be washing blood out of the carpet when they leave."

"Will do, Dollface," Tony assured him, pulling himself out of Jarvis’s grasp and hurrying downstairs, leaving Steve sleeping. “Where is he?" He shouted, making his way downstairs. “And so help me if the bitch ain’t breathing I’m gonna gut one of you instead."

The men gathered in the foyer jumped to attention, leaving their bounty kneeling on the carpet with a bloody nose. Next to him stood a boy Tony hadn’t seen before. He hopped the last stair and pointed the pistol in his direction. “And you’d be who, exactly?"

"Peter, sir." The boy didn’t even flinch with the barrel aimed right at him. “Peter Parker."

"Doesn’t mean shit to me," Tony said. “Why are you here?"

"H-he brought the meatsack in, sir," one of the others offered, his head bowed, hat clutched nervously in his hands. 

Tony stared at the kid. “You did?"

Peter nodded. “Had a bit of help from one of your guys. But yes, I did."

"Which guy?"

"None of these goons."

Which meant all the men gathered quickly shrunk and shied away from Tony. “Who then?"

"Some blonde guy. A bit off his rocker, sir."

"Oh for shits sake-" Tony turned to face the stairs. “Bruce! Bruce get your pretty ass down here! Get down here now or I drag you down here myself!" He shouted at the top of his lungs, his men and their captive wincing at the volume.

It took a moment, but a sleepy, irritable Bruce soon appeared at the top of the stairs. “What?" he snapped.

"Where’s baby bird?"

"How should I know he’s not my pet."

"No, you’re his, so that means out of all of us-"

"He left in the middle of the night, how the fuck should I know-" Bruce stopped midsentence.

"Left to go where exactly?" Tony asked, knowing damn well exactly where Clint had wandered off to.

"Shit, fuck, goddamn it."

"Look," the kid named Peter interrupted “all I know is he was blonde, a little bit wacko, and really good at climbing things. He helped he get this guy and then vanished. I can’t tell you where."

Tony shot Bruce a look. The doctor swore again and ran off, shouting for Jarvis. “He was the only damn person who wasn’t supposed to leave this goddamn house," Tony said in a tight voice. Then he turned to the men gathered around him. “Want to explain to me why Barton’s the one who helped catch him? No wait, forgive me, Barton and this fucking Kid!"

He was given a flurry of pathetic excuses and muttered apologies. “Jesus, how am I supposed to run this city with you jug heads screwing everything up?"

More apologies, but Tony ignored them. He could hear Bruce panicking upstairs. Out of the two of them, Bruce always worried most, especially if Clint didn’t make it home directly after a job. Tony sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at the man at his feet. “So you brought this sonnovabitch in?" He glanced at Peter. “Why? I don’t know you."

"I want your help."

Tony raised his eyebrows. “My help? Kid this ain’t a charity."

"These bastards killed my uncle," Peter said, his voice shaking with anger. Tony knew the tone, he’d held it frequently when he was younger. “They killed him and he ain’t done anything wrong. I want to get the man responsible." Peter took a deep breath. “And I want you to help me, sir."

Tony considered him a moment. “So you just figured I’d owe you one, is that it?" Peter never looked away and Tony grinned, the kid has guts. “What was his name, your uncle?"

"Ben Parker."

"Ben Parker, Ben Parker, Ben Parker," Tony thought, starting to pace the carpet. “Hey Brucie! We know a Ben Parker?" He shouted.

Bruce reappeared at the top of the stairs, frantic. “What? Ben Parker? No why would we- No wait, he owned the Newsstand on seventh and fairway. Older man, nice guy, spotted people change all the time when they were short cigarette money." Bruce’s brow furrowed as he thought. “Good man, why?"

"He’s dead."

"Really?"

"Says his nephew." Tony pointed the gun at Peter to clarify, Bruce scolding him for it. “What? I ain’t gonna shoot him."

"Dead how?" Bruce asked, looking to Peter.

"Same bastards Don Tony is looking for," Peter replied, surprising Tony with the proper title. Most kids just called him Sir. “Shot him outside his Stand." Peter’s voice caught and Tony’s shriveled little heart went out to him. “He died before I could get him to the the doctor."

"He was a good man, I’m sorry," Bruce said gently from above. Then he looked to Tony. “Clint’s missing. I can’t find him anywhere, Tony. His bow’s gone too, along with both his pistols and his black gloves." He looked scared and that just pissed Tony off even more. There were few things he disliked more than seeing his boys scared. 

"Easy, baby, Daddy’ll find him."

"Please don’t call yourself that."

"You never let me have any fun," Tony shot back.

Bruce scowled at him. “Take that shithead downstairs and have all the fun you want. Then find my boy before I shank you with a scalpel " He stormed off, muttering under his breath and wringing his hands in frustrated worry.

Tony chuckled. “Well, you shits heard the Good Doctor. Take him downstairs and get him in the chair. Then clear off, I’m not happy with any of you since none of yous seem to be able to do a single thing right." His men nodded and grabbed their bounty, dragging him down the hall to the basement stairs, leaving Tony and Peter standing in the foyer. “Oh and come clean the carpet when you’re done. There’s blood and Jarvis’ll be in a tizzy."

"Will you help me, sir?" Peter asked when the men were out of sight.

Tony leveled him with a bemused look. “Look, kid, this isn’t a charity. I can’t just take kids off the street whenever the opportunity presents itself. Half of the city has a grudge against someone or another, wants revenge for their father or sister or mother or son." Peter made to argue and Tony held up his hand. “I’m not saying no, I’m just saying it ain’t high on my list of priorities. How good are you with a gun?"

"Pretty damn good sir."

"You fast?"

"Fastest kid in my neighborhood, sir."

"You get bullied a lot? That why?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"Tony that doesn’t sound like you having fun and finding my boy, you asshole," Bruce shouted from upstairs. 

"God, go back to bed, woman!" Tony shouted back.

"I will beat your ass and do it myself if you don’t get a wiggle." Bruce appeared at the top to the stairs again, Jarvis at his side, trying to calm him. “This is not alright Tony. He always comes home after a job."

"We’ll find him, Bruce, I promise." Tony soothed, pocketing his gun.

"This is your fault, so you know."

"Oh is it?"

"He thought you were replacing him." Bruce spat. “When he gets home you’re going to apologize or I will carve you like a turkey." And then he was gone, Jarvis following after him to prevent any property damage.

Tony sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Look, kid, ask Jarvis to show you to the kitchen and get you something to eat. I’ll come see you once this business is done, alright? Then we’ll talk about this."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Peter beamed at him, bowing slightly.

"Don’t thank me yet, kid. We haven’t caught the bastard responsible and apparently I’ve lost my best man. Go on, off with you," He ordered and Peter shuffled off after Jarvis and Bruce. Tony sighed and made his way back upstairs to change and wake Steve. He wanted him to be there for the following festivities. He deserved a few good shots at the fella now siting bound to a chair in the basement, at least before Tony started cutting him open for his answers. He was feeling particularly spiteful, which meant the bastard wasn’t going to live to see daylight again. He dressed quickly, in old trousers and an already stained shirt, sliding his suspenders over his shoulders and slipping into his shoes. Then he went to wake Steve.

"Hey," he whispered when Steve finally opened his eyes. “Rise and shine, pet. I’ve got a surprise for you I think you’re gonna like."


End file.
